


The Lake House

by HastaLux, Mottlemoth



Series: Marmalade [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Boudoir photoshoot, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff and Smut, Genuinely Astonishing Amounts of Sex, Literally So Much Sex, M/M, Once Again We Are Not Kidding, Oral Sex, Sex acts include but are not limited to, Sometimes Twice a Chapter, Supervillain Roleplay, That's it, There's Sex in Nearly Every Chapter, They Have Sex and Say Lovely Things to Each Other, This is Genuinely 90k of Fluffy PWP, We're Not Kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-10-20 14:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 96,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20677088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: After the stress of the last few months, Greg and Mycroft have earned themselves a seriously relaxing break. They head off on holiday for some uninterrupted time together - and come to exciting decisions while there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys! <3 We're back with book four of the series. After the emotional trials and stresses of book three, we thought we'd keep this one soft, fluffy and smutty from start-to-end. There's zero peril and very little plot to get in the way, so if you like smut and fluff (and tons of both) this story's definitely for you.
> 
> Heads-up: if you're _not_ a fan of our sex scenes, you might want to skip this one. We're not kidding when we say there's a lot of sex. This instalment of the series has been a breather for us both after the emotion of book three, and we know some of you will absolutely love that. 
> 
> But again, if you _don't_ like our sex scenes, give it a miss. Comments telling us there's a lot of sex will be snarked at. We know there is. We like it that way ;) If anyone could manage to write a 90k PWP, we could.
> 
> So if you're still here, get comfy. <3

“There is extra food under the sink- and if you can’t find Mr. Long Monkey she might have knocked him under the laundry room door again-”

“I know, sir. Get in the car.”

“-and the bottles of wine on the counter are for you, if you’d like something during her designated fuss and play time-”

“Mycroft, I will handcuff you and put you in the boot. Greg, can I handcuff him and put him in the boot?” Mycroft swats at his assistant- well, less  _ assistant _ now, more like second-in-command- but she nimbly dodges. “Say farewell to your fathers, miss,” she says as she makes Miss Marmalade wave from her comfortable position in Anthea’s arms with one paw. 

“Behave for Auntie Anthea, yes? Good girl.” 

It takes several minutes of goodbyeing from both men before they actually get in the car.

Myroft makes it all of half an hour before he discreetly opens the feed on the interior security cameras to see where Marmalade is. He’s meant to be taking care of a few work emails on the way, so they won’t be bothered as much once they arrive, but he’s finding it a touch hard to concentrate. It’s irrational, but he keeps worrying that she’ll be lonely, that she’ll miss them, that she’ll feel like this vacation is some manner of betrayal. 

He murmurs to himself, unable to stop turning over the various problems that may occur.

“Anthea might need to change the filter in her water bowl… I should send her the instructions, just in case.”

*

At the wheel beside him, his partner grins and takes a glance into the rear view mirror. His deep brown eyes glitter over his mirrored sunglasses.

"You're trusting her to handle the country's military intelligence by herself," Greg says, amused, "but not Marmalade's water bowl?"

Admittedly, the thing is a marvel of modern engineering. It's the poshest thing Greg's ever seen a cat drink from, and he's still not sure of the science behind how it works. Mycroft could probably use it as a hiring test for future employees. If they can work out how the tiny fountain switches on when Marmalade comes near it, they can have the job.

"Relax, gorgeous," he says, fondly. "We won't really be that far away. Anthea's got everything covered - and worst case scenario, we can drive back to London in a few hours. Hell, we can probably have Marmalade driven out to us if she seems sad. It'll be fine."

*

Mycroft sighs, putting down his phone and resting his hand on Greg’s knee. “You’re right, love.” His fingers stroke lovingly.

_ First trip together. First official holiday with the man I plan to marry. _

Gregory is meant to be his focus this trip, and he’ll have to put his urge to micromanage the babysitting of their lovely fluffy princess aside. “You’re being the rational one again, Gregory. Perhaps you’ll have to keep me in line this trip.”

It’s unabashedly suggestive. Since Gregory has had the full function of his core again the sex has returned to its prior rather athletic levels, and he does not expect this trip to be any exception. If anything, it will likely offer the opportunity to explore new options and divine new delights to share.

_ I love to discover with you. _

Plus, they’d made a preparatory trip to a very discreet store to obtain some items to try out. They even managed to mostly refrain from giggling and blushing about it.

_ My partner. My love.  _ Mycroft gazes fondly over his beloved.

“Do you know those sunglasses look wonderful on you? You could pass for a famous actor.”

*

The suggestiveness isn't lost on Greg. He flashes Mycroft a look of dark-eyed warmth, returning his focus to the road only with reluctance.

"So long as I get to see you unwind a little, darlin', I'll be happy. It's taken us far long to get away. We've got a lot of R&R to pack into two weeks."

He's glad they're doing this just the two of them. There was talk for a while of a driver to transport them there and back, to save Greg the drive - but now he's behind the wheel, Greg couldn't be happier. It's nice to be just an ordinary couple heading out to the country for a while. For this fortnight, all they'll have to care about is each other.

It's going to be incredible.

"A famous actor?" he says, grinning. "I'll take that. To think I worried they were a bit young for me."

*

“Nonsense. They give you an aura of mystique.”

Mycroft cannot quite cease smiling at Gregory as they drive, the periphery of the city eventually vanishing into wood and field and greenery and the smaller towns between. They’re taking a scenic route, the better to allow a stop for a light, romantic picnic lunch on the way and an early afternoon arrival into town. 

It’s a small, private place, though some of the houses have been modernized since Mycroft’s youth, remodeled into larger rental flats. Not his family’s property, of course- the expansive yard borders one of the lakes directly, and there’s a small dock and ladder into the water visible from the driveway.

“Let’s get the bags up first and I shall give you a tour.”

Some of the tour is implied on the way- the large kitchen and formal dining room, and the winding wooden banister of the stair. Mycroft veers automatically toward the room that has always been  _ his _ \- not the master suite, that still belongs to his parents, but suitably comfortable with a stately four-poster bed. 

He looks sideways, linking his fingers with Greg’s and smiling. “This was my room, always. I expect if we look in Sherlock’s there will still be chemical burns on the walls.”

*

Greg smiles, not doubting it for a second. It's strange and touching to think this house has been a familiar place to Mycroft since childhood - changed over the years, maybe even quite dramatically but still the same space at its heart. 

As he looks around Mycroft's room, he finds himself imagining Mycroft in this room as a younger man.  _ You were a teenager here, once.  _ It's a hell of a thought. It makes Greg feel like a boyfriend smuggled in while Mycroft's parents are away, a first love brought shyly up to Mycroft's bedroom by the hand.  _ Christ, how old am I? Getting a kick out of this...  _

_ Maybe I'm just giddy we finally get to be here. _

"It's perfect," he says, easing his arm around Mycroft's waist. "I reckon we'll be very happy here." 

His fingers stroke against his lover's hip, a gentle and possessive hold. 

"Shall I start fetching bags up?" he says, making no move whatsoever to leave.

*

Mycroft slowly arches a brow and takes a half-step closer, meeting Greg’s embrace and bringing their hips together. “I suppose they shall keep.”

He laces his fingers through Greg’s hair. He’ll never get tired of that, nor the gentle tug as he coils them and leans into a kiss. The ghost of his younger self that no doubt lurks within these walls will be supremely jealous. He’d assumed for years that if he ever maintained a serious relationship it would be one of mutual benefit in all ways except affection.

_ How foolish. _

His other hand lands on Greg’s shirt, casually beginning to undo the buttons.

“May I offer you a bit of exercise after all that time in the car?”

*

_ Fuck me up, I love you... _

"Exercise?" Greg murmurs against Mycroft's mouth, feigning obliviousness - even as he slides his hands from Mycroft's waist to his arse, squeezes slowly and backs Mycroft up against one of the bed-posts. "Go for a swim, you mean? Gentle walk?"

He nuzzles at Mycroft's lips, kissing them softly; he bites his own lip as their hips press together.

"Or are you offering me something else, gorgeous?"

*

_ Oh, god. _

Mycroft can actually  _ feel _ his blood redirect to lower regions, leaving him slightly light-headed. 

“You are teasing me, hellion.” 

It’s working- his cock is half-hard already, and having his back to the post is certainly helping matters along.

His head tilts, giving his lover access to his throat. There’s no need to worry about love bites out here, not with both of their places of employ so very far away and a scarf an easy accessory to add for any trips into town.

Assuming they ever make it out of the bedroom.

“I am  _ offering  _ for you to help me break in the bed, you scoundrel.”

*

Greg gives a soft, sly cluck with his tongue.

"Barely got me through the door," he murmurs, as if appalled, even as he lowers his head beneath Mycroft's chin and wraps his mouth around this gorgeous neck he adores. 

His soft kisses swiftly lose a little of their softness, gaining instead a restless heat and the edges of Greg's teeth. It's far too easy to catch hold of Mycroft's wrists and ease them behind his back.  _ God, how much sex are we going to have this fortnight?  _ Greg has a feeling they'll be out looking for more lube before long. Then, it's hardly his fault it feels so damn good to pin Mycroft against things - these fancy bed-posts were practically made for cuffs.

As he bites into the side of Mycroft's neck, sucking gently to coax a mark to the surface, Greg keeps Mycroft's hands held in place behind his back. 

_ C'mon, posh boy. Snuck me into your pretty lake house at last. Now make some noise for me. _

*

Mycroft cries out, Greg’s bite the sweetest touch of pain in his pleasure. “Gregory- oh, god-”

He shall have to be careful letting Gregory about his wrists when they return to the mundanity of the real world. His reactions are becoming a bit Pavlovian. Mycroft likes to think it is merely that he has years of catching up to do with regard to exploring anything other than his more dominant tendencies that turns him into very moldable putty the second Greg gets assertive with him, but he also very, very much  _ likes it. _

Cock fully hard, he lets Gregory move him just as he likes, pliable and obedient. “Mmm…. I am a terrible influence, Gregory. Someone should have warned you.”

He moans, gently rutting his hips against Greg for the sake of the tension in his trousers. 

“I am afraid I brought you here with entirely ill intent….”

*

Greg counters Mycroft's rut with a slow and shameless grind, rubbing their swollen cocks together through their trousers. It was a long drive here, with plenty of indulgent flirting, and something about the place has left him feeling incredibly playful. It's a very physical mischief, too. He needs to see Mycroft come before they've unpacked a single thing - and he wants to stay up late, exploring at their leisure.

Maybe it's because it's the middle of the day, he thinks, still sucking and biting slowly at Mycroft's neck as he undoes the buttons of Mycroft's shirt. At home, there's a feeling that the middle of the day is a time to be dressed, working, be productive in some way - and Marmalade has the run of the house, too. Exploratory sex runs the risk she'll wander in, and nothing will ever make that not-weird in Greg's mind.

Maybe it's knowing Mycroft has probably never had sex here before.  _ I'm the first,  _ Greg thinks, taking his time to undo Mycroft's trousers, now rocking rhythmically against his lover to keep them both hot.  _ First to give you what you need here.  _ Maybe it's just the thrill of getting away at last, or the promise of two weeks totally alone with no interruptions - or maybe Mycroft just looks gorgeous in this light, all these big windows with breathtaking lake views. 

_ Maybe I'm just desperately in love with you,  _ Greg concludes, easing the front of Mycroft's underwear low enough to free his cock and balls - then sinking to his knees.  _ Maybe you're the second half of my soul, and I need you to be happy more than I need to breathe. _

He wraps his mouth around Mycroft's erection with little preamble, sinking forward as far as he can take for now and covering the rest with his hand, his tongue rubbing firm and slow against the underside. This is neither delicate nor teasing oral - this is restless, dirty,  _ I have thought about this for some time  _ oral, and Greg has no shame in gripping Mycroft by the arse as he does it, encouraging his lover to rock forwards and thrust.

_ Let's start as we mean to go on, gorgeous. See how many innocent childhood memories we can taint forever. _

*

A delicious string of profanity escapes Mycroft when he realizes when Greg is up to, and with his hands released they immediately reach up and grip the post behind him, white-knuckled. “Oh my _ god _ , Greg-”

The grip on his arse tells him to thrust, so he does, rocking forward and letting Greg’s tongue have him, brushing the back of his lover’s throat. 

“Fuck-”

It feels like the right way to start things. They’d been joking for weeks that they’ll never make it out of the bedroom, and he’s starting think maybe it was not in jest at all. They won’t even go down to get the rest of their bags, they’ll just spend the entire time naked. And fucking. 

_ Right in the middle of the day.  _

_ Thank god we do not have close neighbors. _

His knees threaten to buckle, his whole body quivering under Gregory’s eager attentions. “Greg- god, if you expect me to last- _fuck-_ _Gregory-_”

*

A low, hungry rumble is Greg's only response, hummed around Mycroft's cock as he relaxes his throat to let Mycroft thrust a little deeper. There's no way he's going to be stopped so soon. This is far too good to stop: the tickle of Mycroft's shirt against his nose, the plush pad of Mycroft's arse beneath his hands, the carpet beneath Greg's knees. 

He's always loved going down on Mycroft. The moans and gasps he's now earning for it are deliciously pleasing.

Tilting his head back after a minute or two, easing his attentions to just the head of Mycroft's cock, Greg gazes upwards with a look of rather hopeful love, his eyes big and soft.  _ You know what I want,  _ the look says, and it's coupled with fervent tongue flicks to Mycroft's frenulum. Greg's wrapped fist slides back and forth in rhythm; he moans, low in his throat.  _ Give me it, darlin'.  _

*

_ Oh god, that look. _

That sort of look is deadly. Mycroft could bathe in it, in Greg’s open desire, the sight of him moaning around Mycroft’s cock.  _ Jesus. Yes.  _ He lets it build within him, sinking into the sensations as the pressure grows.

“Fuck- Gregory-  _ yes-  _ so perfect- your  _ mouth-” _

His grip tightens around the post, hanging on so he doesn’t fall if his legs give out. His thrusts grow faster and then he’s over the edge, groaning loudly as he spends himself. His knees threaten to buckle but he hangs on through the spurts until he feels like he’s connected to this plane of existence once more.

Looking down, his eyes are still dark and full of love as he brushes his fingers over Greg’s cheek.

“Beautiful, my love.”

He inhales long, steadying himself further.

“Shall I return the favor?”

*

_ A good start,  _ Greg thinks, letting Mycroft's spent cock ease from his mouth with a last soft kiss. He loves the fingers brushing against his cheek; he loves laying his head against Mycroft's stomach, feeling his partner's deeper breaths of relief. It's still a thrill to feel like he's good at this, like he knows what he's doing.

Gazing up, his mouth curving, he nips the dishevelled edge of Mycroft's shirt and gives it a playful tug. 

"Wasn't a favour," he murmurs, releasing the fabric. "You know I'd do this every hour if I could."

*

“Every hour may qualify as an assassination attempt, hellion,” Mycroft says fondly, cupping Greg’s jaw. “But I would die quite happy.”

He sinks down, finding the edge of the bed with his fingertips so he can plant his arse on it. His mind is blissfully calm, occupied only with thoughts of love and hedonistic sensuality as he gently tousles Greg’s hair.

_ I want this room to be ours. This holiday to be ours, and ours alone. _

“Come up here. Let me tend to you.”

*

"Comfy," Greg notes as he settles beside Mycroft on the bed, his shoes toed off and his shirt half-done. He grins and leans over to kiss Mycroft between the eyes. "Mmhm... this feels amazing. Just you and me. Can’t believe we’ve got two whole weeks of this."

He bites his lip, well aware of what he’s doing.

"This is all I’ve wanted for months - you know that?"

*

Mycroft does not miss that deliberate lip bite.  _ Fiend. Tempter. _ He sets himself to freeing himself from the confines of his clothing, letting his trousers and shoes fall from the side of the bed. Straddling Greg’s lap, he starts undoing the remaining buttons of Greg’s shirt, trailing his fingers along the skin beneath.

“I have felt much the same. Time to be alone, time without any other concerns in the world….”

He leans down to kiss Gregory, slow and exploratory and passionate. Unhurried. 

_ After all, we do have two weeks. _

“I should like your joy and our happiness to be my singular focus. I am entirely and exclusively yours.”

_ Forever. Forever, my love. This is only the beginning. _

*

Greg moans softly into the kiss, arching up; his lips open for Mycroft to explore his mouth. This feels incredible. He doesn't want to leave the bed. They should just stay here for the rest of the day, kiss and touch and fuck, find out what it's like to melt into each other completely. He'd planned to cook a big meal tonight, get settled into the house. 

Maybe there's a takeaway nearby will deliver.

Mycroft's words gently tighten Greg's heart. He shivers, drinking them in, and steals another kiss from his lover's mouth.

"God, I love you... I love you so much. Everything about you." Greg reaches out to run his hands over Mycroft's stomach, up to his chest, enjoying the pale skin still a little sex-flushed and warm. "Mmhm... love how happy you are just after you've come. You know you're never sexier? All satisfied and relaxed..."

*

“Never?”

Mycroft’s lips kiss a path along his lover’s jaw until he reaches the line of his throat, the pulse beneath still quickened. “Mmm, not when I am riding you?” He lets his teeth drag, finding a soft span of skin near Greg’s shoulder where he can place a gentle bite. “Not with my mouth around your cock?”

His hands slide down, spreading open Greg’s shirt until he reaches his beloved’s trousers, which he opens with slow and methodical patience, ensuring the fabric is pressed from time to time to the hardness beneath. This is a delightful use of the afternoon.  _ Fun, _ even. 

“I suppose we must conduct a very thorough analysis to be sure.”

Tongue laving back up, he finds the lobe of Greg’s ear and catches it in his teeth, pulling gently. 

“I have exacting scientific standards, you know.”

*

_ Oh fuck, darlin'... pull me apart... _

Mycroft's back feels warm and smooth and gorgeous under Greg's hands. His fingers tense as Mycroft pulls at his earlobe, letting out a breathy groan of longing. His hips lift as much as they can, searching for friction, and it takes him a moment to pull words together in his mind.

"Always willing to do my duty for science," he murmurs, stroking slowly down Mycroft's sides. He takes hold of his hips, possessive and gentle, enjoying the heavy thumping of his own heart. "I think we might discover I find you sexy as hell all the time. Pre-, during and post-fucking."

*

“Mmm, do you? Perhaps I have inadvertently cast a spell over your person… that seems far too much sexiness for a very minor government official to manage.”

His hand slides into Greg’s trousers, teasing over his pants for a bit before finally drawing out his cock with a loose stroke. Keeping it light and deliberately not quite as rhythmic and steady as he know Greg needs, Mycroft does not fully close his hand about it until his teeth again find Greg’s neck, and he starts sucking a small mark.

They have time.  _ So much _ time. 

It’s going to be so very enjoyable when they manage to get down to the car and bring up their bag of new toys to play with. If it weren’t for that, he might suggest they never leave the bedroom at all. 

“I must admit, of course, that I also find you… ‘sexy as hell’... at all times. Positively irresistible.”

*

Greg's breath drags through his throat, shaking into a groan of mingled frustration and enjoyment. 

"Don't, then," he whispers, biting his lip. "Don't resist me."

Mycroft's fingers feel better around his cock than anyone else's touch has ever felt. The stroking is familiar and teasing and  _ good,  _ and Greg knows exactly what Mycroft is doing. It's hot as hell to be toyed with in this way. His head tilts back into the pillows, offering more neck, more skin to mark, his whole body tingling a little in anticipation of pleasure he knows he'll only be given when Mycroft is ready.

His hands flex at his lover's hips, padding - the sucking at his neck feels glorious. His toes have curled already. This is everything he wants.

"You know I want to fuck in every single room of this house, don't you?" he murmurs. He shudders as he feels his cock leak for Mycroft's touch. "I want to have you over every fucking surface. I want to hear you pant my name over and over, everywhere we can."

*

“Shall we have a checklist? A bingo sheet?”

Mycroft marks his lover once more, savoring every groan, every slight shift in search of greater pleasure.  _ Mine. All mine.  _ Rocking his hips gently, he rubs his arse over Greg’s thighs, his bollocks dragging warm and soft up the hardness in his hand.

“Have me. I want every molecule of this house to know how much I love you. I want you to have me as you will….”

He shifts lower, pausing to caress his tongue against both nipples. His hand wraps more firmly about Greg’s cock, pulling with greater intent, his thumb finding the dampness at the tip and gently spreading it over the head with care.

“I cannot pant your name when my mouth is otherwise occupied, of course,” Mycroft says idly as he reaches Greg’s navel. 

“Perhaps you might call mine instead.”

*

Greg digs his teeth into his lower lip, trying to stop his hips from bucking upwards. The slow spread of Mycroft's thumb feels intensely good - it's nearly enough to make him squirm. He's increasingly aware that Mycroft could keep him here for hours, toying with him, and he'd only come harder for it in the end. 

"Y-Yeah?" he says, watching down the bed as Mycroft reaches his navel. His pupils are huge. "How're you planning to bring that about?"

*

“I’m sure I’ll think of something….”

Mycroft draws lines with his tongue up and down the vee at Greg’s hips, never quite reaching the place that feels the most needy and hot when brushes against his jaw. 

“One day while we are here, I am going to tie you to the bed and explore you very, very thoroughly, for as long as you can stand it until you are begging for release.”

Nestling closer, he drags his tongue through the patch of coarse hair, flicking it against the base.

“For now… I am going to make you come so hard that you see not only stars, but entire galaxies.”

*

_ Jesus - your tongue -  _

Wet, soft - sliding over the vulnerable skin at the top of his thighs. Greg's fingers dig into the covers behind him as he breathes with it. It's an exquisite sort of torture, and all the pleasure promised in Mycroft's voice has his thighs tensing slowly and parting in instinct. His cock almost aches now; he can barely think.

"Mycroft..." he whispers, sounding lost. His grip tightens on his handful of covers, clenching and releasing as he tries to cope with the first flick of Mycroft's tongue against his cock. "Darlin', you're killing me..."

*

“Oh, am I?”

The occasional lapping of Mycroft’s tongue gets, if anything,  _ more _ teasing as his hands wraps Greg’s hips. He  _ loves _ watching Greg slide into  _ need.  _ It’s so beautiful, so honest. 

“That did not sound like calling my name yet, love.”

Eyes up, drinking in his lover’s face, Mycroft teases all the way up-

And then, without warning, he wraps his mouth about the entirety of the glans, tongue flicking away at the frenulum. His hands hold Greg steady as he does so, no doubt expecting him to buck. 

_ Mine. Mine to please. _

*

Greg's expression contorts.

He breathes in hard, whitening his knuckles on the bedsheets and closing his eyes at once. His head drops back to face the ceiling. The little flicking is fucking perfect, and Mycroft knows it - and it takes every ounce of Greg's resolve not to cry out. 

He forces the surge of energy into his hands instead, scrunching the covers tight, and into his lower lip where he bites down. His thighs tense tighter. All he wants in the world is to thrust up, to push deeper and get Mycroft to suck him, soothe him, surround him - 

But this is all feeling like a rather gorgeous game now. Greg has a feeling his desperate silence is going to invoke a very specific reaction in Mycroft.

A reaction he's never tested before.

He wants to test it now.

Badly.

*

_ Oh, hellion- resisting me, are you? _

If Mycroft could get hard so soon after his own release, this would probably manage it for him. The smile in his eyes grows dangerous as he considers that lovely bitten lip and the hands clenched around soft fabric. It makes him feel… competitive, almost. This has just become a game he plans to win.

_ And I have no compunction about playing fair.  _

His hands slip behind Greg’s arse, kneading and parting the cleft there without ever ceasing the attentions of his mouth. Keeping his gaze fixed, he lowers down until his mouth is full, leaving just enough space for his to keep rubbing his tongue along the underside of Greg’s cock. Meanwhile, he dips one long finger to stroke tenderly in sweeping circles against Greg’s hole.

_ Can you keep quiet for this, love? _

*

_ Oh shit oh shit oh shit -  _

Greg's legs spread of their own will, responding with desperation to the searching touch. Just the suggestion of Mycroft fucking him is enough to make him need it right now. His cock throbs urgently as it slides into wetness and heat and there's the delicious lazy rubbing he loves, so good he wants to scream, and his face flushes with heat.

But he kinda wants to win the game as well - or, if he's always fated to lose, at least to make Mycroft work for his win.

He focuses on his breathing, drawing heavy but near-silent breaths as he blanches his lip between his teeth, his back arching a little from the bed. 

_ Make me, gorgeous. Make me moan, make me lose. I want to lose.  _

*

_ Oh, look how hard you are trying, my love. _

Mycroft must offer his congratulations to Gregory’s stubborn stamina- it’s deliciously arousing to watch him manage to keep quiet.  _ I know how badly you want it, darling. _

He drags his finger into his mouth as he begins to ease down, sucking, getting the whole of Greg’s cock slick and warm alongside it. With his finger moistened, he returns to toying with Greg’s hole, pressing just enough to ease in, slowly working his way in with designs on stroking his lover’s prostate until he screams.

As he finds it, he takes Greg in entirely, all the way to the base of the shaft with his lover in his throat, the very edge of a smirk still visible at the corner of his mouth and in the glimmer in his eyes.

_ Show me. Come apart for me. _

*

Greg kids himself for all of a second that he's still handling this - then he feels his body jerk with the sheer intensity of the feeling, and his startled gasp chokes into a moan. He tries to clamp down on it. It's too good though, pleasure now rioting through his entire lower body, his heart pounding with the force of his need to fuck and be fucked. 

And surrendering feels so sweet.

He breaks, crying out; his head grinds back into the pillows. All the noise he'd been withholding comes pouring through the cracks, moans and sobs and breathy pleas, then as he starts to come he lets out a helpless whine of Mycroft's name. His body strains against the bed. He nearly buckles with the rush of it. His vision whites and he can hear himself calling out, trying to form his lover's name again - only gasps of it escape. 

As he crashes free of the surge, panting fit to burst, Greg's not surprised to feel sweat on his lower back.

"F-Fuck," he whimpers, releasing his painful grip on the sheets. His hands are shaking. "Mycroft - "

*

It’s one of the most beautiful orgasms he’s had the fortune of causing.

He holds his lover through it, every sound Gregory makes gliding through his soul and warming it with joy and contentment.  _ I make him feel this way. I can give him this joy.  _ If feels a bit smug about it, that’s only to be expected.

Mycroft swallows, tidying what he can gently with his mouth, and lays soft kisses across Greg’s stomach as he crawls back over his lover. “Yes, darling?” He ought to go fetch them a flannel before they manage to need to wash the sheets before ever actually sleeping on them, but he’d rather lay his head on Greg’s shoulder for a while and cuddle. 

He does so, laying his arm across Greg’s chest and listening to his still-racing heart. 

“Not too much, darling?”

*

Greg's arms wrap around Mycroft in an instant, pulling him closer to rest. The press of their flushed bare skin feels incredible; Greg can feel climax still echoing through every cell of his body, shortening his breath and making his pulse flutter. He feels alive.

"Not too much," he promises, and reaches for Mycroft's mouth. They kiss, slow and deep, as Greg's entire body aches with satisfaction. He doesn't want to put clothes on. He doesn't want to get up and unpack. He just wants to lie here, tangled together and kissing. 

As they come apart to breathe, a shiver passes down his spine.

"I love you," he whispers. Their noses rub. "God, I love you. I f-feel -  _ animal." _

*

“Hang on to that. You have an entire fortnight to see how  _ animal _ you can get. I should like to see that results of that trial.”

Mycroft kisses his love once more, slowly easing himself up from the bed. He does not want to, not really, but they’ll both feel better for a bit of tidying. “I love you, and I am going to clean us up. Then we can see if there’s anything decent laid in for us to eat tonight.”

It will probably match the usual contents of their home, seeing as Anthea put in the request and his parents are sill safely ensconced in Spain, well out of interfering distance.

He gets a flannel and brings it back to his lover, kissing each spot he tenderly cleanses. “Perhaps a nap might also be in order….”

*

"Christ, yes," Greg whispers, at the suggestion of a nap. Nothing would make him happier in this moment. He watches down his body as Mycroft cleans him with the warm cloth, shivering a little at each tender kiss. By the time they go home, he wants to know every inch and every particle of his partner's body. He wants to feel so close it's like they occupy a single soul.

Clean and comfortable once more, the cloth is banished out of the bed. 

Greg wraps himself around Mycroft, kissing him again.

"Nap now," he mumbles, as their bare skin presses close. "Food later. I'll cook anything you want, darlin'... feed it to you by hand in bed. Just sleep with me a little first."

His eyes glitter softly.

"Worn me out. Need to replenish our energy, if we're going to survive two weeks."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft wakes about an hour and a half later and gently extricates himself from his lover’s embrace, wanting to let Gregory get a bit more rest since he did the entirety of the driving. He pulls his clothes back on to go retrieve the rest of their bags from the car, offering a cheerful wave to a passing neighbor walking a dog. 

She looks surprised, her wave back a little restrained.

_ Ah, well. Likely not used to seeing anyone genuinely cheerful here. _

His parents had thrown parties here, posh affairs and such, but there was a utility to them, a constant negotiation of status and business and power. Mycroft was expected to attend, of course, unless he had to attend to Sherlock’s minding. Sherlock, of course, was never invited as he had a tendency to inform visiting parties of all their deeply kept secrets as soon as he grew bored.

Mycroft had preferred it when they were younger, before Sherlock had worked out how to escape his nanny, when no one minded if he vanished off with a book for hours to hide amongst the trees or crawl into the attic. 

He lays out their luggage by the closet, hanging the suits they’d each brought in case of a formal dinner, their shared bag of  _ adult toys _ set by one of the nightstands. Gregory shifts gently and Mycroft abandons his shoes to crawl back into bed, wrapping his lover up in his arms.

“Hello love. Sleep well?”

*

  
  


Greg shivers with a long, low yawn, nuzzling sleepily into Mycroft's neck.

"Mmh... hey, darlin'..." 

Running his hands up Mycroft's back, he encounters the surprise inconvenience of fabric. He makes a little noise of protest, untucks Mycroft's shirt and slides his hands beneath the hem at once, pleased by the reunion of his fingertips and Mycroft's skin.

"Why're you dressed?" he rumbles, lifts his head and kisses the corner of his lover's jaw. It leads him to Mycroft's ear, where he nibbles gently for a moment. "Why would you do that to me?"

*

“I elected not to provide a  _ show  _ to any passers-by when retrieving our bags, though of course if that is some manner of fantasy you have as of yet neglected to share with me….”

Sleepy Gregory is one of his favorite iterations of his beloved. Mycroft loves the warmth of his embraces when he first awakens, the way his hands always instinctively search for Mycroft… and, of course, the occasions in which Gregory awakens with certain  _ needs _ ready to be sated.

Mycroft hums his approval when Greg’s teeth find his ear, tilting his neck open further. He weaves their legs together, liking the heat of Gregory’s body on his own, even with trousers in the way. There is always something decadent about one of them being nude while the other is not, a fact he lets himself indulge in as his fingers trace the muscles of Greg’s back.

“I suppose you may disrobe me again, hellion. Are we to be nudists? Shall I bother unpacking anything other than the rope?”

*

Nothing in the world ever feels quite as good as Mycroft's neck. Greg nuzzles lovingly as it's offered to him, breathing deep to enjoy his lover's smell, their legs tangling slowly beneath the sheets. He isn't sure how long he's been asleep. 

_ Long enough,  _ he thinks, slyly helping himself to handful of Mycroft's arse, squeezing slowly and plying Mycroft's neck just a little with his teeth.

"Don't pretend you've not imagined it," he murmurs. "Braced against a window as I fuck you from behind. Rocking into my fist around your cock. Letting me play with your nipples, there for anyone to see."

He bites down, firmer, coupling it with another squeeze of Mycroft's arse.

"Gonna need stronger than rope to keep control of me, darlin'."

*

_ God. Fuck. _

Words like that might kill him. Two entire weeks of Gregory Lestrade’s imagination growled into his ear and playing havoc on his cock. 

_ Does it count as an assassination attempt if it has my willing and enthusiastic consent? _

He swallows down a moan, the noise reduced to a soft sound in the back of his throat, though he cannot contain the shudder of want that suddenly ripples through him. Mycroft shifts closer, turning his nails in and dragging them slowly and lightly across Greg’s back. 

“You are feeling  _ very _ mischievous, hellion.” He sighs contentedly, nudging his leg up between Greg’s thighs. “And I am keenly aware your devilishness is not easily tamed.”

“That is, after all, why I also sprung for that lovely leather restraint set.”

*

Greg doesn't deny it for a second.

"On holiday," he murmurs, parting his thighs to let Mycroft's leg press between them. "Normal to feel mischievous on holiday..." 

He bites his lip a little as he rubs himself down against Mycroft's thigh. It eases the growing pressure in his balls somewhat; all contact feels kinda delicious right now. They've been getting better and better at sharing their feelings through words, but this is different: this is sharing through skin.  _ I need you to know I want you,  _ Greg tries to say, sliding his hands with longing up Mycroft's sides.  _ You are physically perfect. You are divine.  _ Mycroft's neck feels incredible against his lips and tongue. Kissing it floods his senses with enjoyment.

"You've been dying to try that out," Greg murmurs, letting his voice grow soft and dark. "Is that what's in store for me tonight? Tied down and fucked 'til I'm tame...?"

As he bites down, he nudges his stiffening cock into Mycroft's stomach.  _ I want you. I belong to you. Nothing makes me feel like you do. _

*

“Perhaps.”

Another bite and Mycroft cannot bear the tightness of his own trousers anymore.  _ He was right. Should have taken them off as soon as I returned to the room.  _ He opens the button, shoving them and his pants past his arse and freeing his own cock. His hand slips up, then, wrapping his lover’s needy member.

_ I feel you, love. My gorgeous love. I want to take care of you. _

“If I survive that long.”

He strokes upward, savoring the dampness on his belly where Greg has rucked his shirt out of the way.  _ Hardly awake and the first thing you want is me. _

“I have the feeling you do not have the patience for such things right  _ now _ , however….” Nudging his own hardness up, he shifts until their cocks are in alignment and wraps them both in his hand, shivering slightly at the stimulation.  _ And he’s already planning for round three. _

_ I’m going to die happy, at least. _

“And somehow I doubt anyone could ever fully tame you.”

*

"Oh, fuck," Greg whispers, pushing gently into the stroking. "Ohh... god, Myc..." 

A shudder tickles down the back of his neck, tumbles between his shoulder blades and along his spine, stealing his breath for a second with its intensity. This feels every bit as physically intense as their first time, with all the love and closeness of every time since. 

All he wants is to lie here all afternoon, tangled up together like this, talking softly and teasing and making love.

"God, I want you so much," he moans, finds Mycroft's mouth and kisses him deeply, sharing the same breath as they share the same pleasure. It feels so good to wind his fingers through Mycroft's hair, scrunch them slowly against his scalp. Their mouths stroke together, soft flashes of tongue, and the gentleness of it all is killing Greg - the slowness, the steadiness, the sound of their breath. 

"Tame for you," he whispers, catching Mycroft's lower lip. The tug is almost puppyishly gentle. "Your Greg. Your hellion. All fucking yours."

*

It feels so fucking  _ youthful _ , laying here like this, just rutting and stroking and kissing, as though he’s lost ten years in a single day. Nowhere to be, no obligations, and all they need to concern themselves with is being with each other.

The hands in his hair, the soft bite on his lip- it’s all wonderful. Mycroft moans freely, electing not to restrain a single noise. He wants Greg to know exactly how pleasurable every last touch is.

“Only for me… so good for me, aren’t you? So perfect.”

He keeps the pace of his hand slow, spreading their dampness down as it grows, slicking them. Kissing back, he slowly draws his lips along Greg’s jaw until he reaches Greg’s ear and can tease the lobe there as Greg had tormented his. 

“I suppose if you can be tame for me, I’ll have to keep you. Can’t have you menacing the general populace.”

*

Mycroft's voice, so close, so soft and intimate, raises every single hair on Greg's body. 

He shivers in response, his heart quickening in his chest.

"Have to keep me sated," he whispers, and runs his hands around Mycroft's waist, down to the tender skin low on his belly.  _ Only I get to touch here. Only I get to hear you like this.  _ "Think of the trouble I could cause..." 

He loosens Mycroft's trousers a little more for him, easing them low enough with his hands that he can raise a dextrous foot to work them down the rest of the way. They end up tangled somewhere towards the end of the bed, lost beneath the covers.

"I want you naked," Greg murmurs, divesting Mycroft of his shirt next, tugging the garment up over his lover's head. The momentary skip in stroking is worth the hot press of their skin as they come back together. "G-God... god, My... this is really working for me..."

*

“Mmm, I can see that.”

It is  _ working _ for Mycroft as well, as most things involving Gregory and a bed (or a couch, or the dining table) do. He likes the indulgence of letting Gregory undress him, that his lover needs him so much that he can’t bear to have any layers between them. 

“I believe keeping you sated, Gregory, is a full-time position.”

He drags his teeth down Greg’s neck, gently biting when he reaches the thicker muscle at his shoulder.  _ Mine.  _ His lover, gorgeously worked up, a little bit of sweat between them and the scent of their sex in the air. Mycroft’s thumb finds Greg’s frenulum, stroking it with special care and knowing exactly how affected it makes Greg when he does so. 

“I may devote an entire day to discovering how much sating you can take. Start in the morning… then late morning.... I suppose I might need to have you tied down by the afternoon like the feral beast you are.”

_ God.  _ He’s going to wreck  _ himself _ at this rate, but watching Greg’s reactions is entirely worth it. 

“I am eager to learn what exactly you might be begging for by nightfall.”

*

Greg moans without shame at the gentle bite, his neck arching in offering. He wants to go home covered in love bites; he wants to wear their sex all over his skin. He wants it to be blatantly obvious to everyone he meets how their holiday was, and what the majority of their time was spent doing. He wants his skin to read,  _ he loves me. He fucked me. I had him inside me every second I could. _

As the stroking of his frenulum cuts his breath, Greg's hips rut forwards and he shudders. 

"Mmh - y-yeah, like that - "

He listens, overcome, to the promises now being soothed against his bite. He wants all of it - every moment of it. He wants to be tethered, exhausted and sore, still pleading for Mycroft, pulling at his ties in desperation. 

He wants to be slaked.

"Ohh, god... how can you tease me like this?" he breathes, flushed in the face. His eyes are glittering, his hips now gently canting in a sleepy rhythm to slide their cocks against each other. "Mmhh - f-fuck - I love you - "

*

“Feel free- to retaliate- in kind….”

The addition of Greg’s gentle rocking to their slow fucking very nearly puts Mycroft over the edge. His bollocks pull up, and he shifts restlessly, joining Greg’s motion in a needy counterpoint.

“I love you- I love you-  _ fuck-  _ Gregory, I’m close-“

He sinks into the sensation, letting the pressure wrap around him and build within. His lips find Greg’s once more, kissing a little desperately. His lover is so beautiful like this. It would be a crime not to worship him.

A moan escapes him.

“Greg-“

*

_ God, yes, like this... slow like this, kissing like this...  _

_ Fuck, fuck, just like this... _

Greg responds to his lover's desperation with his own heating passion, shivering as their lips stroke and play and seal. Mycroft's moans would probably be enough to make him come even without the touching. He sounds so good, so raw, so _real,_ and Greg feels his lover's every restless shift like it's his own. 

He can feel them drawing closer together, gathering, building. It's a game of timing now - it's a case of sinking his focus into the wrap of Mycroft's fingers, the heady rub of their cocks, the tremors coursing through his lover's body, letting the feeling grow but not yet overwhelm. He can feel Mycroft's every movement. He can feel him getting near.

"Want to come with you," he whispers against his lover's mouth, shuddering, and takes a restless tug of Mycroft's lower lip. His toes curl with sudden need. His balls are drawing tight. "Ohh, fuck - c-can't hold - now, love -  _ now _ \- "

*

Mycroft would whisper “now” as well, but hems already over the edge, groaning against Greg’s mouth as they pulse together, coating his hand and their bellies. He feels as though he’s been shot out in a firework, exploding sparks in the shape of his love.

“Fuck, Gregory….”

His clean hand wraps around Greg’s back, holding him close as he breathes, waiting for his heart to slow.  _ Perhaps that shall be the way of it. Sex and naps for two weeks. Who needs food. _

“Hardly settled in and you are already making a mess of us twice, love.”

He cards through Greg’s hair, kissing him again, this time slow and soft.

“Such a terrible influence. What will the neighbors think?”

*

Greg's soft laugh is rather throaty, husked with satisfaction and coupled with another lazy kiss. 

"Mhm... let them think what they think..." He grins against his lover's mouth, his dark eyes shining from their depths. "Let them think you're a sex god, My... sex god with a hellion who fucking adores him..."

He has a feeling his exhibitionist streak is going to find some expression before they go home. The part of him which likes being restrained is probably going to get some exercise, too - and, if he's lucky, he might even be able to coax Mycroft outside.

If they lie here for two whole weeks, making a lazy delicious mess of each other, he'll return to London a happy man.

"Can I give you a proper massage later, gorgeous?" he murmurs. "Brought the oil with us... feel like I want to worship you a little..."

*

“You are a menace to my ego, Gregory. I shall be very big-headed by the time we get back.”

Mycroft nuzzles closer, heedless of the mixture of their sweat and semen. They will need to shower- probably soon- though he’s already expecting at this point that keeping a full basin of water in the room might be prudent for expedient wipe-downs.

“You may put those lovely hands to work however you like, my love- however, if we do not consider dinner shortly, all this exertion is going to lead to one of us passing out, and that would be detrimental to your quite admirable goal of desecrating the entire house.”

He strokes along Greg’s spine, tracing the ridge of every bone and the span of strong muscles, mapping him.  _ Ten minutes. Ten minutes and I shall get up and bathe. _

“That would be such a shame, Gregory… too tired to fuck.”

*

Greg arches slowly into the stroking of his spine, humming with enjoyment against Mycroft's neck. The slightly damp touch of sweat in his lover's hair is ridiculously addictive. The hot, animalistic feeling of connection hasn't really left him yet, even though the urge to come is soothed - for now. 

"Shower together, maybe?" he murmurs, lifting his head to catch Mycroft's earlobe and suck on it gently. His tongue flicks behind, playful and fond. "Then I'll get dinner together for us, I promise... something to keep our energy up."

He hopes Anthea remembered to order ice cream for them. Of all people, she could probably guess how a lot of this holiday would be spent. If Mycroft happens to spend some of it partially coated in chocolate ice cream, Greg certainly shan't complain.

"Have I told you that I'm in love with you since I woke up?" he asks, softly, as he kisses Mycroft's pulse. "Think I need to."

*

“Possibly a few times… though I am never opposed to additional declarations.” Mycroft nuzzles back, kissing Greg’s temple. “I love you too, hellion.”

Bathing is accomplished, eventually, with a minimum of tomfoolery, even though they take their time with it, lathering each other, slow and patient. On the way down Mycroft completes the household tour, pointing out his parents’ suite and the rest. 

As predicted, the food Anthea had ordered for them matches their typical provisions, and several bottles of wine have been provided as well. Mycroft is also keenly award the housekeeper has been asked not to bother with visiting unless summoned, for which he is very grateful.  _ No surprise visitors. _

When he peeks into the cabinets he finds his fingers lingering on the slightly indentations in the wood where locks used to rest, prohibiting him from  _ overzealous snacking. _ He glares at one as he flicks the door open to find the wine glasses, feeling rather pointedly rebellious.

“You can pick, beautiful. I am content to eat anything you are so inclined to cook.”

*

  
  


_ Good old Anthea.  _ She's taken good care of them. Greg searches happily through the fridge, picks out a few things that'll work well together, and lays them out on the counter as Mycroft hands him a glass of wine.

"Thanks, darlin'... green curry sound okay? Shouldn't take too long, and we'll have some left for lunch tomorrow."

As he's browning off the chicken, Greg realises he's set out a small plate beside the cooker top. 

The thought makes him happy and sad at once. Marmalade will be having dinner with her Auntie Anthea tonight. This is the first meal he's cooked in a long time where she isn't keeping a close eye on him from the table, mewing to remind him she's there and she's waiting.

_ She'd have found it strange here, _ he tells himself, taking a drink of wine.  _ Might've wondered why we had the bedroom door shut constantly. Hated the car journey. _

_ Better that she's cosy at home. _

*

Spotting the small plate, Mycroft slips up behind Greg, laying a hand on the curve of his lower back. “She’s fine, sweetheart. We can video chat her tomorrow if you like.”  _ Or,  _ Mycroft can pull up the internal cameras and check on her whenever he pleases.

He’s trying to behave, however, like an average person on holiday, and not one whose home is rigged with clandestine cameras. Besides, so far Gregory has done an excellent job of distracting him. 

The meal is excellent, as always. “It’s a good thing we are  _ working out _ so often, or I should I think your cooking will yield another full stone on my waistline.” It’s true, Mycroft has become a bit more liberal with his portions, a bit less resistant to dessert or sweet treats when he wants them. Or when Greg has made them, which is effectively the same thing.

The idea of indulging  _ here _ feels like a particularly inspired tacit two fingers up for what he had previously been denied. 

“Would you like to watch something with dessert, lovely? Or have you nefarious intentions upon some of our ice cream?”

*

"What waistline?" Greg asks, leaning low to kiss Mycroft's temple as he stacks the plates on the table. "I've checked you thoroughly, darlin'. Several times. There's definitely room for my cooking."

He transfers the dishes to the sink, and starts the water running to rinse them. 

"Shall we get the tablet out, watch something in bed maybe? I kinda feel like red wine... getting a bit tipsy. Is that bad? S'pose we are on holiday..."

*

“Hmph. Flatterer.” 

Mycroft smiles, feeling oddly contented by the domesticity of it all. He picks up the wine and his own glass, fondly watching his lover execute the otherwise quite mundane tasks of clearing up. 

_ Nothing is mundane when Gregory does it. _

“That is an excellent suggestion. We can finish the bottle and have a nice long lie-in tomorrow.”

He always enjoys lazy evenings with Gregory, curled up against each other while they watch nearly anything at all. Wine simply makes it more likely that their clothing will slowly find its way to the floor over the course of the evening. 

“I’ll dig the tablet out, love. See if I can find anything with a nice handsome lead….”

*

A dark-eyed, glittering look comes his way from the sink.

"You've already got one of those," Greg says, amused, shaking the water carefully off the plates. "And you get private performances from him." 

As he loads the plates into the dishwasher, it strikes him that just a year ago, he'd never have imagined taking the title of 'nice handsome lead' for himself - even in jest. 

It's one of a million tiny joys his life now holds. 

Every single day with Mycroft is like a rainstorm of little miracles, and everything is growing and strong.

The dishwasher isn't quite full yet - they might as well wait and add the breakfast pots in the morning, make it count. Mycroft might be financially comfortable, but there's no sense in wasting expensive dishwasher tablets.

Washing his hands, then drying them quickly on a teatowel, Greg takes up his glass of wine and drains the contents. The warm, happy desire to get drunk remains. They've not had giggly drunk sex for a while, he thinks.

This handsome male lead he'll be competing with isn't going to sustain Mycroft's attention for an entire film - not if Greg has anything to do with it.

*

“Oh, private performances. I do wonder if I have the clout to command one of the Bonds to show up and offer me one of those….”

Teasing Gregory is one of Mycroft’s favorite pleasures. There’s something invigorating about getting him a bit riled over Mycroft making the occasional comment about Daniel Craig or Aidan Turner or Richard Armitage. 

The fact that it usually ends with Greg pressing him into a wall or the couch or the bed and ensuring he knows where his loyalties lie is a nice benefit as well.

He escapes up the stairs with the wine in tow, actually  _ giggling _ , before any retaliation can occur in the kitchen.  _ Perhaps I have already had a bit more than usual.  _ But it’s a pleasant, festive sort of buzz, the kind that makes him playful and perhaps a little bit slatternly. He fluffs the pillows, arranging the wine and his glass on the nightstand and the tablet on the bed, then sprawls beside it in a fairly calculated manner.

“Gregory… if you leave me unattended I am going to play something where someone is shirtless in waves for half the film. What is that called?  _ Fan service?” _

It had been Greg’s suggestion that he might look for other persons who like the same novels online, and it has been an interesting experience in learning an entirely new vocabulary.

“I shall play something with fan service.”

*

Greg had almost forgotten Drunk Mycroft's proclivity to tease him. He's not sure  _ how  _ he could have forgotten, because it always ends so delightfully for them both. This mischievously feline, ever-so-slightly-slutty side to his partner doesn't come out to play often, but when it does, Greg can almost feel the temperature of his blood rising by the minute.

As he joins Mycroft in the bedroom, carrying his empty wine glass at his side with his fingers circled around the rim, he notes the inviting sprawl at once - the glint in Mycroft's eyes - the pretty flush to his face that says,  _ play with me. _

Smiling, running his tongue behind his teeth, Greg strolls calmly over to the bedside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't want to see slutty!drunk Mycroft Holmes eat too much ice cream and unleash his inner Bond villain all over Greg, you're going to hate every word of this. 
> 
> The rest of you, there's popcorn under your seats.

"Not sure I should've introduced you to the internet," Greg remarks, taking up the wine bottle and generously refilling his glass. "I think it's gone to your head, darlin'. You'll be having all sorts of warped ideas before long."

He puts the bottle down with a quiet clunk, lifts the glass and takes a drink, his eyes dark and warm and fixed on Mycroft's beautiful face.

"Which of your fancy men are we watching shirtless in waves, then? Is it Lord Asriel, or one of the berks from  _ Lord of the Rings?" _

*

“Mmm, any of my warped ideas I get from you. And you like them.”

Mycroft turns the tablet to face Greg,  _ Casino Royale _ pulled up to the menu. “Lord Asriel, in one of his alternative forms.” Spy movies do not always thrill him, but on occasion it’s nice to let himself laugh at the inaccuracies, and the eye candy is always excellent. 

Shifting over and patting the bed beside him, he waits for Greg to make himself comfortable, nestling close once he’s settled in. He always prefers Greg’s shoulder and the warmth of his pectorals to a pillow, even more so when he’s had a bit to drink.

He hits play, letting the opening run as he casually reaches over and toys with the hem of Gregory’s shirt. Once the theme is playing, he turns a warm, dark gaze to his lover and holds out his glass, feeling cheeky. 

“Refill me?”

*

Greg raises an eyebrow slowly, holding Mycroft's gaze as he reaches to the bedside. He retrieves the bottle of wine.

"If I didn't know better," he murmurs, as he tops up Mycroft's glass, "I'd say you're feeling a little foxy. Sure it's just my imagination."

He returns the bottle to the cabinet, picks up his own glass and takes a sip. He rather adores having his lover lying on his chest like this. It's easy and comfortable to wrap an arm around Mycroft, stroke his hair and his shoulders, and it leaves a hand free for his drink.

"Hope you're not too drunk to follow the story," he murmurs, kissing the top of Mycroft's head. "You're watching for the story, right?"

*

“Oh, certainly. The swimming and those excellently cut suits are merely a side benefit.”

Mycroft is terribly comfortable like this, and it would be so easy for him to fall asleep… if his intentions were more pure. But he does intend to come once more today, though the wine may slow the process a bit. He sips slowly, the dark red staining his lips.

“You know I have been called Le Chiffre to my face on three separate occasions? No one in my prior agency would ever invite me to play poker….”

Ostensibly, that was down to the math. Everyone assumed (quite correctly) that Mycroft would be physically incapable of not counting cards and analyzing the odds far better than anyone else at the table. However, he has it on authority from Anthea that at least a certain subset of MI-6 means it a bit further than that- the suits, the coldness, his calculating reputation.

If any of them ever saw him with Gregory he could dispel that notion in an instant.

“You would be more of a Bond, I think, darling.”

*

Greg smiles, his eyes warm, stroking back a little of Mycroft's hair with his thumb. 

"Nah, love," he murmurs. "I'm one of the poor sods following orders who gets killed by accident in the first five minutes. Might be on a memorial wall at the end if I'm lucky."

He can't quite take his eyes from the pretty stain of Mycroft's lips. It's so primal, darkened lips. The effect it's having on him is fairly hard to repress. He shifts a little, presses a fond kiss to Mycroft's forehead, and lets some of the film go by.

An hour later, their wine bottle stands empty on the bedside and the lazy craving for indulgence that often accompanies intoxication is kicking in.

Greg eases himself out from Mycroft's arms, murmuring, 

"I want dessert, foxy... won't be long. Behave while I'm gone."

His head swims gorgeously as he makes his way down to the kitchen. His clothes feel too hot, his blood too warm.  _ It's got to be ice cream. _ He retrieves the tub of dark chocolate along with a single spoon, scruffs his hair in the hall mirror as he passes, then carries the ice cream back upstairs.

*

_ Behave. _

_ Hmmmm. _

Mycroft is a bit drunk, a bit slutty, and still quietly mischievous. He has behaved enough. It’s a holiday.

Here, he’s allowed to be naughty.

He moves quickly, if a little off-balance, reaching for their newly acquired bag of toys. It only takes a little searching to find what he’s looking for and secret it under a pillow.

When Gregory returns, Mycroft is again splayed out rather coyly, a few buttons of his shirt undone.

“Ooh, ice cream. Are you planning to share?”

*

Greg appears in the bedroom door, takes one glance at the scene laid out for him, and his mouth immediately curves.

He comes to the end of the bed, where he looks down at Mycroft with unconcealed amusement.

"D'you know how I can usually tell," he asks, "where someone's stashed a murder weapon?" He prizes the lid slowly back from the ice cream as he talks, his eyes on his lover, bright in the dim light. "I look past the very obvious distraction."

He digs the spoon into the ice cream, wedging it deep so it stands up straight.

He then glances at his slightly shifted pillow, one eyebrow raising with enormous interest.

"Should I be afraid?" he asks, as he lowers himself onto the bed and crawls his way up to his lover.

*

Mycroft smirks. He does so love it when Greg is clever. ‘ _ Obvious distraction’ indeed. _ “And why should you be afraid, Gregory?”

He claims a kiss as Greg crawls up to him, using it to carefully rotate his lover onto his back and steal the ice cream spoon, licking it rather lasciviously before he puts it back. “I hope you were expecting to share, beautiful.”

Letting the movie play on for a bit, and encouraging Greg to work on his dessert, it does not take long for Mycroft to gradually slip down from his usual position at Greg’s chest, planting a string of soft, playful kisses across his stomach as he gently opens his lover’s shirt and eases it from his shoulders.

_ Let me feel your skin, love. _

When next he draws up, leaning forward for Greg to place another bite in his mouth, Mycroft deftly extracates a span of soft rope from under the pillow and drags it across Greg’s belly, one brow playfully arched.

_ Interested, love? _

*

It's deliciously difficult to care about either James Bond, or ice cream, when Mycroft is easing off his clothes. Greg manages to pretend he's still focused on both until his shirt comes back over his shoulders, at which point his eyes close with the rush of arousal.  _ Fuck, yes.  _ He wants sex at once, biting into his lip a little to try and ease the hot need, draw this out.

But the slow rasp of rope across his stomach is a sensation he won't soon forget.

He lifts his eyes to Mycroft's gaze, colour rising in his face, and gives a hopeful nod. He doesn't know why this seems even hotter drunk.  _ Tied down, fucked.  _ He has a feeling this is about to get dirty. 

He's more than willing to let it.

*

The ice cream finds its way to the nightstand.

Mycroft behaves for a bit like this is a perfectly typical part of watching a film, as he eases Greg’s wrists behind him and slowly winds the rope around them. If he was a bit less tipsy he might aim for something more complex, but this will suit for now, as a first test.

The tablet is paused and set aside as well when he’s done. They’ve seen it before, after all. And Mycroft has other spy games he’d like to play.

He straddles Greg’s thighs, a dark, hungry glimmer in his eye. “Are you certain you would not make a decent Bond, beautiful? Tragically captured by nefarious enemy agents with… indecent designs on your person.”

Mycroft cannot imagine himself one of those Bond girls, the sort supposedly working for the enemy but so easily swayed by a single look at a decent set of abdominals. 

His fingers pop the button on Greg’s trousers, his hand gently sliding inside and just feeling, keeping the fabric of Greg’s pants between them for now.

“What do you think, love? Give up your secrets and be untied?”

*

_ Christ, why is this so hot?  _

As Mycroft palms the growing bulge of his cock, Greg realises he doesn't care why. He just  _ wants _ this. He wants everywhere this is going, wherever that may be. Pleasure and longing flood his face, though he presses his teeth into his lip a little harder - he restrains his sounds.

It takes him a few seconds to gather the words together, delighting in the chance to play along.

"You'll never make me talk," he says, his voice a little ragged, and regards his lover with his best attempt at wilful defiance. "Do what you will, Antarctica. I'll never tell you."

*

“What I will?”

Gregory looks  _ delicious.  _ It’s that moment of aroused surprise Mycroft thinks he enjoys the most. He could watch Greg discover new enjoyments every hour of the day. It also turns out Mycroft rather likes it when he plays along. Fantasies in the bedroom have not yet been an area where he’s tried anything more than casual play-acting at roles. 

With Gregory, however, he wants to try  _ everything. _

“Dangerous words, Mr. Bond. I have ever so many  _ ideas.” _

Mycroft tilts Greg’s chin up, leaning in to bite a mark into his neck.  _ Mine. _

“When I am done with you, I believe you will want to do far more than tell me everything, Mr. Bond.”

He slowly lowers Greg’s pants, freeing his cock to the open air. 

*

_ You'd better not be imagining I'm Daniel Craig, you git. _

Greg's chest heaves with the biting of his neck. Though he longs for it, he resists the urge to offer up more of his throat. He wants to play - wants to let Mycroft play, too. He could give in now and they'd have an enjoyable drunken fuck; or he could make this more of a challenge. 

The spring of his cock from his underwear makes him shudder, twisting against the rope around his wrists.

"You're bluffing, Antarctica," he says. "Do your worst. You'll run out of ideas as fast as you run out of patience."

*

“You know nothing of patience, Mr. Bond.” 

Mycroft wraps his hands around Greg’s waist tightly, pressing his fingers in just a little roughly. This time he bites one’s of Greg’s pecs, harder than the last.  _ All mine. No matter what alias you might be going by. _

When the mark is there, small and purple, Mycroft pulls down, dragging Greg away from the pillows and onto his back. He’ll be on his arms for a bit, but Mycroft does not intend for him to have to stay there too long. Once he’s in position, Mycroft methodically divests him of the rest of his clothing, leaving his cock untouched for the moment.

When he’s fully nude, Mycroft climbs back over him, claiming a rough kiss. He dips his hips, letting his trousers brush over Greg’s cock. 

“I don’t think you are prepared for my worst, Mr. Bond.”

*

Greg hisses restlessly, flexing his hands against the soft sting of his lover's mouth. He's definitely drunk enough to enjoy this playful rough. He loves the drag of Mycroft's hands down the bed, loves the stripping away of his clothes, loves pretending this isn't doing everything in the world for him. The rigid arc of his cock is rather giving him away; that, and the deep shudder of enjoyment that courses through his body as they kiss. He even lets his tongue slip into Mycroft's mouth a little, a gentle brush of reassurance.  _ I want this. God, I love this. Play with me.  _

_ I love you. _

As their mouths part, he holds Mycroft's gaze and gives a soft snarl.

"Yeah? Maybe you should test that theory. M'looking forward to proving you wrong."

*

Mycroft kisses his lover once more, hard again, then easing into softness.  _ Love you. I love you.  _ A quick exchange of glances confirms Gregory’s continued desire.  _ I want you to enjoy yourself as well, love. _

With a calculated turn, Mycroft rolls his lover over onto his belly, taking a moment to ensure his shoulders are comfortable before he continues with his game, wrapping his fist tightly in Greg’s hair and pulling up while stroking his tongue along Greg’s neck.

He nips and drags his teeth over the back of Greg’s neck, down to the supple muscles of his shoulders. As he draws back, letting go of his partner’s hair, Mycroft makes a little show of checking Greg’s bonds and ensuring they are thoroughly secured. That done, his hands land on Greg’s arse, kneading and spreading the cheeks teasingly.

“I suppose I ought to worry that you are a flight risk, hmm? Ready to escape at any moment?”

He leans over the side of the bed, finding another span of the same soft rope.

“Do I need to secure you further?”

*

_ God. Fuck.  _

Greg never knew his hair was a major erogenous zone until Mycroft touched it. Having it pulled is now the single fastest way to make him desperate to fuck immediately, and it takes almost all of his resolve to act like he could take it or leave it. His muscles bulk, his wrists twisting desperately at the rope - he forces the need to make sound into his breath instead, panting through it.

Mycroft's hands then gripping his arse are almost too much. He plants his face into the pillow just to breathe, biting it a little to try and quench the hot flood of excitement in his abdomen.  _ Jesus. God. Fuck me. Push my legs open and fuck me. Own me. Have me. I need it. _

As Mycroft produces more rope, Greg forces himself to raise his head from the pillow. His pupils are swollen with almost desperate hunger, his cheeks hot, a little sweat shining on his forehead already.

"Tie me down as much as you want," he says, his breath tight. "It won't make any difference."

*

Mycroft smiles, a little flash of real joy across his face before he restores his persona. “Oh, I think it might.”

This time he uses the rope to bind each of Greg’s ankles, separating his legs to tie off against the bed posts. He runs his hands up the inside of Greg’s legs slowly, varying light, caressing touches and firmer drags of his nails.

Settling between Greg’s legs, he returns his attentions to Greg’s pert arse, nipping a bit at the muscle on either side, then beginning to layer strokes of his tongue steadily into the cleft.

_ Entirely at my mercy, and I intend to make the most of it.  _

Mycroft’s tongue finds Greg’s hole, twisting and teasing the outside of it. He can feel Greg’s muscles tense in pleasure and it just makes him want Gregory more. He’s been ignoring the building pressure in his own trousers, patiently waiting for the right time to indulge.

_ Soon. _

For now he’s eager to hear his lover’s enjoyment in the catches of his breath and muffled grunts as he tries to resist.

_ Not for long, lovely. _

_ * _

At the first wet stripe of tongue between his legs, Greg sinks his teeth deep into the pillow. He's never felt so desperate to be fucked in all his life. Spread open like this, bound into place, he belongs to Mycroft and the licking feels so good he wants to scream. 

His hands are soon white-knuckled behind his back. He doesn't know if his whimpers are audible, but the gentle twists and nudges of Mycroft's tongue send such intense pleasure spiking through him that he fears at one point he's started to come. The restless rut of his hips against the bed reassures him; he's still hard. This isn't nearly over.

_ Not until you let me.  _

_ Until you make me. _

_ God. _

His whole lower body feels like it's tightening in anticipation, his muscles gripping, legs trembling as he strains. He feels so empty it aches. How he's not started to beg, he doesn't know - until he realises  _ this _ is the real submission, fighting his own needs, doing well at their game, playing his part for Mycroft. Even as his cock leaks desperately between his stomach and the bed, he manages to keep his sounds quiet and gasped.

If this was real, he'd have handed over every secret he'd ever been told by now.

He'd also have been begging Mycroft to fuck him until he forgot his own name.

*

Mycroft enjoys the little sounds Greg makes as he starts tongue-fucking him in earnest, his thumbs brushing along Greg’s balls both to add to the sensation of it all and ensure he’s not tipped his lover too far over the edge yet.

_ Doing so well for me, my love. So beautifully. _

When the quiet moans grow in pitch and he feels Greg shudder beneath him, he finally pulls off, leaving him untouched again for a bit.  _ Breathe, darling.  _ “You do have quite the resistance to interrogation, Mr. Bond. Very impressive.”

He rises from the bed and slowly removes his own clothing well within Greg’s line of sight, a bit of drama in the way he unbuttons and tosses the items carelessly to the floor. He’s hard, excruciatingly so- every brush of fabric over his cock nearly makes him break.

But he’s not done yet. He drags his teeth over his lower lip, looking over Greg like he’s the finest cut of steak. Meeting his lover’s eye, he comes to a quick decision, and strides closer, shoving (cautiously) his lover onto his shoulder so his head has more freedom to move.

“Since you will not talk, Mr. Bond, let us put your mouth to better use.”

*

As Mycroft eases away from him to undress, letting him breathe, Greg forces himself to count slowly in his head to hold onto his orgasm. He's so close that a single restless rut of his hips could break him; he's never felt so vulnerable and aroused at once. 

He watches, pupils huge, as Mycroft strips. It's impossible to hide his slow panting, the shine of sweat across his back or the trembling of his inner thighs. This is working for him in ways he can't even explain. 

As Mycroft steps close, he's almost relieved not to fuck just yet. He wouldn't last. This wound up, he'd come just feeling Mycroft start to push inside him. 

The ropes at his ankles keep him tied into place and open. Tilting away from Mycroft's presented cock isn't an option. Playing the game, letting it distract him from the desperate throb between his stomach and the bed, Greg regards Mycroft with another flash of dark-eyed defiance, almost enjoying this persona now - captured, proud. A glance is the only defence he can mount, though. 

Mycroft's prick brushes his lips; at once Greg opens to permit.  _ I want this. I love this. God, please, please let me have this.  _ The wet pad of his tongue rubs along Mycroft's length as it thickly fills his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut. 

*

Mycroft has to swallow twice before he’s capable of speech. It’s the show of defiance coupled with the obvious desire, he thinks, that is attempting to undo him. Fortunately, as the wine wears off a bit, his copious self-control is enough to keep him from ending things too early. 

“That’s it. Show me those famous skills of yours.”

His hand finds his lover’s hair once more, tugging gently at first, then more forcefully as he grows certain Greg is still comfortable.  _ Absolutely gorgeous.  _ He can feel his skin flushing, desire rippling through him. Biting down on his lip is the only way to stifle an open groan of pleasure.

“A lover in every city, that’s what they say of you, isn’t it?”

One finder of his free hand strokes the line of Greg’s jaw gently, watching as his cock vanishes in deepening thrusts into that lovely mouth. 

“You’ll be all mine from now on. Mine to do with as I please.”

*

Greg's first groan is from the tug of his hair, muffled around Mycroft's cock and swallowed back at once. He shudders, sliding Mycroft deeper into his throat. Mycroft's guiding hand in his hair keeps him grounded as he takes the steady thrusts into his mouth, his heart pounding.

At Mycroft's words, Greg's eyes slowly lift. They're dark and deep, his gaze intense, softened with flickers of helpless longing. Greg is desperately enjoying the role; he's never tried anything like this before, but he suddenly hopes it comes home to London with them. 

In pursuit of that hope, holding Mycroft's gaze, he slowly begins to service - shaking as he meets each thrust with a short slide of his mouth, winding his tongue to rub wetly where it's needed.  _ My famous skills,  _ he thinks, deploying them with almost trembling awareness.  _ I won't talk. I'll suck you dry, though. Just watch me. _

*

_ Oh good lord. _

That gaze  _ must  _ be illegal. That or Gregory has a hidden set of talents in acting Mycroft has never previously worked out of him. And his  _ tongue- _ oh, god, Mycroft could enjoy this for hours. 

Gregory seems to be enjoying it quite a lot as well, Mycroft notes as he meets his lover’s eye. A flicker of loving fondness cuts through his otherwise serious and cold veneer.  _ Love you.  _

His toes are curling when he finally pulls Greg off and lets go.  _ Mmm, so close. _ It is still not time yet, however. He only plans to come when he’s buried deep in Greg’s arse.

“You may have a use yet, Mr. Bond. Sating my pleasure….” He rolls Greg off his shoulder and back onto his chest, eyeing him with a dark smile as he plucks the lube up from the table. “In every possible way.”

He drags his fingers along Greg’s back as he walks around the bed, making sure the sound of wet stroking is loud enough to be noted as he coats himself over.

*

Greg takes a little firmness to remove from Mycroft's cock. It's from pure physical enjoyment, lapsing as he was into that lazy zone of pleasure where Mycroft could slide into his throat with ease, where everything was just rhythm and soft moans were slipping from him without notice. He's always loved giving Mycroft head; doing it while tied down turns out to feel even better.

He pants as he's rolled back onto his chest, swallowing around the stretch of his throat, and presses the heat of his face against the cool pillow. His hands stretch against his bonds. He waits, aching a little, listening to Mycroft circle the bed.

The slick sound hitches his pulse in an instant. He bites back a whimper, shivering; the instinct to spread his thighs goes nowhere, open and tied down as he is already. His hands grip his ropes, and he tries to twist enough to look back over his shoulder, his dark eyes flashing.

"If I didn't know better, Antarctica... I'd think you never cared about the information at all. I'd wonder if you brought me here for your own twisted purposes."

His voice rasps a little from oral, low in his throat and thick. He regards Mycroft closely - then very slowly, very pointedly, pulls his lower lip between his teeth.

"Better have your fill of me while you can. 'Cause I'll get out of here soon... and believe me, I'll come return the favour."

*

_ Hellion. _

Mycroft takes a moment to bite his tongue to divert the impulse to simply leap upon his lover and shag him.  _ You know what biting your lip does to me, you absolute demon.  _

There’s also the concept of Greg tying  _ him _ up, which is not something he can consider in full at this moment, lest he come from the fresh, soft burn of desire and anticipation the image conjures alone. 

“You think you can escape, Mr. Bond? Go right ahead. The waters outside are infested with the most dangerous species of jellyfish known to man. A single touch and you would be begging to return to me.”

He runs his hands over Greg’s legs, soft and light, teasing until he reaches Greg’s arse, which again earns more firm attentions as Mycroft settles into position. His cock nudges firmly into the cleft, not penetrating yet, just wanting to be sure Greg feels his hardness.  _ All for you, my love. _

“What if I make you beg for me now? I can tell you're nearly desperate for it.”

*

Greg's thigh muscles tighten with anticipation, need flushing across his face as Mycroft's cock slides just where he wants it. He's still soft and wet from the rimming, his cock still hot where it's pinned beneath his belly, and the thought of Mycroft so close to filling him up is hard to breathe with. He wants to feel gorgeously, thoroughly used.

Biting back a groan, he shudders and flexes his hands against his bonds.

"Y-You'll never hear me beg."

*

Mycroft makes a low humming sound as he closes one hand around the bonds about Greg’s arms, the other in his hair. It’s enough leverage to simply pull and begin to sink in, his lover gorgeously ready for him.

As always, burying himself in Gregory is exquisitely pleasurable, and a few grunts escape him as he presses in to the hilt. He breathes a moment once he’s there, listening for Gregory’s breath to signal he is ready to continue. Once he’s certain they can both bear the additional stimulation, he leans down and teases his teeth over the meat of Greg’s shoulder.

“I may not hear you beg with words, Mr. Bond.”

Mycroft bites down firmly, even a bit roughly as he pulls Greg’s hair in tandem.

“But your body speaks volumes. All that training and all you really want is for  _ me  _ to take you for my own. To  _ own  _ you.”

He punctuates it with a long thrust, withdrawing nearly to the head of his cock before burying it completely once more.

“And I shall make you mine, Mr. Bond, I can assure you of that.”

*

Greg's mouth drops open as Mycroft presses into him, all pretense of the game forgotten for a moment. His expression contracts and releases; though no sound leaves his mouth, the intensity of the sensation is etched in every inch of his face. 

Deeper still, his breath cuts and a first whimper is given, swallowed back as he pants. 

This feels good in a way he's never felt before. The roughness is somehow soothing, even the biting and the hair-pulling. He feels owned - owned as something precious, something wanted. 

As Mycroft starts to move in him, he can't stop the sound that escapes: a faint and almost nervous moan, the sensation too much to hold. He loves when Mycroft fucks him from behind. The angle is perfect, Mycroft's cock deep and thick. Helpless, unable even to writhe, it feels like all Greg can do is take it - and it's so hot he's biting into his whimpers in seconds.

Though he tries to recover his previous resolve to stay quiet, he can hear himself breaking more and more with every minute. Mycroft feels too good to be able to fight. 

At last, with a gasped, "Oh,  _ fuck," _ he turns his face against the pillow and openly starts to pant. His lower back arches in search of more; fresh colour floods his face.

*

“Yes- that’s it-”

It is perhaps by the grace of the wine and a touch of tipsiness that Mycroft is not yet on the precipice, otherwise the sound of Greg’s noises finally breaking through his play at stoicism would be enough to put Mycroft over the edge. Gregory is so pliant, so open for him, the tint of his skin deliciously rosy- he has to kiss every bit of it in reach, has to possess all of him. 

“So good for me, aren’t you. All mine. All mine for the taking.”

_ My beautiful love. _ Even bound up and at his mercy, Mycroft would never let Gregory experience anything other than pleasure in all its variants at his hands. Feeling his body search for even more is the greatest reward Mycroft can have.

He picks up his pace, letting go of Greg’s wrists to brace himself on the bed, pounding harder and deeper. Mycroft may be falling out of his character, the nefarious Le Chiffre dissolving around him, but that doesn’t matter- in the end it’s always himself and Gregory. The toys and any roles they play are never important in the long run so long as it’s still them in bed.

His hand slips out of his lover’s hair and finds his hip instead, holding firm.

“Do you want to come on my cock alone, love? Or shall I stroke you as well, have you make a mess all over my hand?”

*

As Mycroft begins to pound, his lover jerks with an involuntary soft cry. His hips push back even more and his panting starts to fracture into anxious moans. In Greg's mind, the two situations are blurring into one. Both of him are now bound in belonging to Mycroft, overcome by the pleasure being poured into his body and helpless to repress it any longer. 

He submits at last with a begging whimper, rutting his desperate cock against the sheets. All the friction he needs is coming from there. It's Mycroft's cock he wants to push his climax.

"You," he gasps out, and the rush at hearing himself submit is almost enough to tip him over the edge. He sobs, heaving against his bonds just to feel them. "P-Please. You. Fuck - soon - "

*

“Yes,” Mycroft exhales in response, shifting both hands to Gregory’s hips and adjusting the both of them so he has a better angle on Greg’s prostate while still letting Greg’s cock rut into the sheets. He can do this for his love, let him come bound and pleading. Let them both be sated.

_ God, you’re beautiful. _

Driving downward so rapidly is doing himself in as well, his bollocks tightening rapidly. “God, yes- Gregory- come for me- come with me-”

He doesn’t stop thrusting even as his own orgasm takes him, pulsing deep within his lover. “Fuck- I love you- I love you-”

*

Greg arches and lets out a cry as he feels sex grow slick, overcome by the sound of Mycroft panting love for him as he climaxes. He ruts back and tries to gasp,  _ give me it, give me all of it, fill me,  _ but the words fragment and blur in his mouth. All can do is whimper a stream of pleaded nonsense. 

His own orgasm comes only moments after Mycroft's. Pleasure pours through his nerves as he howls into the pillow, spurting in desperation across the sheets. He can feel his body clenching and tightening around Mycroft's cock. It feels so good it's nearly too much.

He's left boneless, trembling and whimpering his partner's name, pulling weakly at his wrist bonds. 

"Darlin'?"

*

“I am right here, love- you were so beautiful, so good for me- just keep still for me a moment while I get you free.”

Mycroft softly kisses Gregory’s neck and upper back, still catching his breath as he loosens the bonds enough to slide the rope from Greg’s arms. His own body is demanding rest but Greg needs him just a bit longer.  _ Love you. I love you so. _

“There you are- here, let’s stretch out your arms a bit- just like that- alright, now I shall free your feet.”

Pulling out feels stimulating enough that Mycroft groans, breathing through it for a second before he can muster the wherewithal to shift down the bed and untie Greg’s ankles. As soon as the rope falls to the floor he’s back beside Greg, murmuring soothing noises in his ear and stroking his hair.

“Come here, love- was that too much? Are you sore?”

*

Freed, still trembling, Greg nestles hopefully into Mycroft's arms. The full-body contact helps to start settling his pulse; he leans into the hair-stroking, his eyes lulling shut.

"I love you," he murmurs in response, kissing Mycroft's jaw. "I love you so much..."

The slug of hormones at the point of climax seem to be tipping him from playfulness into an immediate, deep need to be held. He's experienced this after sex with Mycroft before, usually when they've tried something new. It was far more frequent in the early days. Though odd, the feeling is familiar enough now for Greg to know what it is - and how to soothe it.

He presses his cheek against his lover's, breathes in with a slight shudder, and whispers,

"Bit of drop. I liked it - I  _ really _ liked it - just n-need some fuss maybe. Is that okay?"

*

“Of course, love. I love you too.” 

Mycroft knows certain things help when Greg ‘drops’. He winds their legs together, maximizing skin against skin, caressing his hair and easing Gregory as much as possible onto his own chest while offering gentle kisses wherever his lips can reach. There ought to be more he can do, really, and he’s certain there are better solutions to be found. It’s something he ought to look into now that they have more toys meant for… intense experiences. 

_ I suppose one research task that shall benefit the both of us might be allowed while we are on holiday. _

“I’m glad you liked it. My brave secret agent….”

He finds the bedspread, kicked out of the way sometime earlier, and draws it over them. It won’t matter if it gets messy- they’ll just make it worse later anyway.  _ Or else we shall spend the entire trip laundering the sheets.  _ Mycroft wraps it around them, tucking them into comfort and warmth, shifting his stroking motions to a gentle massage of Greg’s arms as he checks for any tightness leftover from the ropes.

“I love you, beautiful. We’ll just relax here a bit until you feel up to perhaps popping into the bath with me to tidy up. And we shall both have a glass of water before bed, hm? Stave off any interference from the wine.”

*

The comforting wrap of the covers draws a long breath from Greg's lungs. He feels reassured at once, nuzzling closer and letting Mycroft rub his arms for him. 

"I'd love a bath..." A shiver runs it way down his back, intense enough to catch his breath.  _ "Wow.  _ I'd really love that. Just hug a while, get clean together... I think I'm maybe a bit drunk. And we've had a lot of sex today."

He brushes a kiss against Mycroft's jaw, their cheeks pressed together. He doesn't know how humour and fragility can both be running wild through his system right now, but they are. A sound of amusement leaves him, nervous and soft, half-laugh and half-exhalation.

"F-Fuck, you do some wicked things to me. I love you so fucking much."

*

“So long as they are enjoyably wicked.” Mycroft turns his lips in, pressing a soft kiss to Greg’s cheek. The wine is drifting through his system with a post-coital languidness, a sort of hazy warmth merging with the comfort of the bed and Greg’s body against him. “I love you too.”

They linger there for a while before either of them are willing to move. Mycroft gets cups of water and makes them a bit of toast to absorb the rest of the wine while the bath heats, then feeds it to his love as they cuddle in the water. 

Clean and sated and tired, they tumble back into bed smelling of shampoo and soap. 

“My beautiful love,” Mycroft breathes sleepily as they intertwine once more, drifting peacefully into dark and quiet rest. “We ought to come back here. Every year.”

_ Forever, _ he thinks as his mind begins to turn off.  _ Forever with you. _


	4. Chapter 4

Greg wakes the next morning nestled in his lover's arms, sore all over - and already a little horny. The covers smell of sex and it's evocative. They've slept late together, exhausted and somewhat hungover, and the light on the curtains reminds him of their lazy Sunday mornings back at home.

For a while he lies cosy in the quiet, listening to Mycroft breathing in his sleep. Finally, the need to use the bathroom persuades Greg to push back the covers.

_ Alka Seltzer and a cooked breakfast. _He's not had a hangover in some time, but it always worked. After washing his face, faintly amused by the absolute state of his hair and the big pink bite at his shoulder, Greg quietly pulls on a dressing gown and pads downstairs to the kitchen. 

He's gotten good at making Mycroft's morning smoothies now. He knows which recipes Mycroft seems to enjoy the most, and immediately sets about chopping cherries and pineapple for his favourite. The whir of the blender provides a familiar background noise as Greg spritzes a pan with oil, takes bacon from the fridge and sets about frying it.

He hopes Anthea is spoiling Marmalade a little. 

He has a feeling Marmalade will be getting on very well with her auntie in their absence - it's easy to miss her, all the same. 

He drops a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, flips his bacon over and sets about decanting Mycroft's smoothie into a tall glass for him, pleased with how it's turned out. 

_ Help you recover some energy, _ Greg thinks fondly, smiling to himself as he chops up a few banana coins to add to the top. _ 'Mr Bond', indeed. You filthy bastard. _

*

Mycroft awakens sprawled onto Greg’s side of the bed, apparently seeking an absent source of warmth and feeling vaguely disgruntled when he cannot obtain it. _ Kitchen, _ he determines once his brain summons enough energy to recognize the distant whir.

The bedroom is something of a wreck- there are still ropes on the floor, an empty wine bottle and dirty glasses on the nightstand. He’d be mildly horrified to see it like this usually- but this is his holiday. He’s allowed to wait to tidy if he likes. He sorts himself in the bathroom and acquires his dressing gown, grabbing the wine glasses on his way down to the kitchen.

“I hope you are planning to let _ me _ spoil _ you _ with breakfast at some point during this holiday.”

Mycroft slips behind Gregory after leaving the glasses in the sink, wrapping his arms about his love’s waist and kissing him on the cheek. “Good morning, darling. Did you sleep well?”

*

A happy grin spreads across Greg's face as he feels his lover's arms loop around his waist. He leans back into them, turning his bacon absently with the tongs.

"Hello, gorgeous..." He tilts his cheek into the kiss, glowing a little with this easy, indulgent physical affection. "Are we gonna end up racing each other down the stairs every morning?" he murmurs. "See who can get to make breakfast first for who?"

He transfers his bacon across onto his ready-buttered toast, tops it with the second slice and gives it a press.

"There's more bacon, if you want it... only real cure for a hangover. Food fried by someone who loves you."

*

“Mmm. Is that advice you’ve acquired from a medical professional?” Mycroft eyes the bacon, feeling his mouth water a little. Even though he rarely indulges in it, the smell will never cease to be intoxicating. 

He runs his tongue over his teeth and kisses Greg once more.

“Very well. But only because on holiday calories do not count.”

Besides, at the rate they’re going he’ll need the extra energy to manage with all the sex. _ Not that I’m complaining. _He lingers a little bit to simply enjoy the closeness, breathing in the scent of Greg’s hair until it’s clear they both ought to move to the table. Even there his feet wander over to Greg’s calf just to keep the contact.

_ I love you. _

“Would you like to explore the grounds a bit today? We might see if we scandalized any of the neighbors yesterday….”

*

As they get started on breakfast, Greg wonders briefly if other people ever feel this happy. He didn't, before Mycroft. Moments like this feel so dizzyingly lovely and normal that it's hard to remember there was a time he didn't have this. With a bacon sandwich, a fresh mug of coffee and Mycroft's toes sneaking along his calf, Greg couldn't ask for anything else in the world.

"I'd like that," he says. His eyes brighten in the sun's soft glow. "The fresh air'll do me some good, I think... and I'd love to see more of the place." He bites into his smile. "Might have to be a fairly gentle explore."

Last night's exploring, after all, rather swept aside the boundaries of gentle. Greg doesn't lament it in the least. The morning-after ache of serious sex, all in his thighs and across his lower back, is nothing but a joy. Every movement reminds him of Mycroft's hands and his possessive affection. 

Eyeing his lover fondly, watching him enjoy his holiday bacon sandwich, Greg tells himself to behave and eat his food. They've barely been awake half an hour. His cock can wait until they've at least finished breakfast.

_ God, but you look fucking gorgeous today. _

_ And you're mine. _

*

“Very gentle,” Mycroft says with a touch of cheek. He’s feeling a bit mischievous this morning. _ And I am sure I know who to blame for it. _“We must be sensitive to your advanced years.”

A slow walk will be lovely- he’s looking forward to seeing if any improvements have been made. It’s been a few years since he’s come out here for anything other than temporary respite, and often he was still working enough that a lengthy walk or anything separate from his computer would be out of the question.

But Gregory’s hair looks so lovely in the light that Mycroft would happily even leave his phone behind to watch him grow tanned and sun-kissed. 

Still, he does worry it had not been the _ best _ plan to indulge in one of their new and more athletically-inclined acquisitions while a bit drunk. Gregory is moving with a mild bit of stiffness that has not entirely escaped Mycroft’s notice. He blushes mildly as his toes curl around Greg’s ankle. “You’re still certain it was not too much? It... may have been a bit... aggressive. Even for me.”

*

Greg's ankle curls too, his toes fanning to brush over the side of Mycroft's heel. He reaches out for Mycroft's hand. _ This is important, _ he thinks, and his gaze warms as he looks at his lover, soft with reassurance.

"It wasn't too much, love. I promise. And you're not aggressive - I mean it, darlin'. You can kick that out of your brain."

His fingers slip beneath Mycroft's wrist, stroking his pulse point gently.

"I kinda need you to lead me sometimes. It really works for me, especially if there's something new happening. I liked with the ties, and... well, it was fun playing pretend. As long as you're always there afterwards to look after me if I get - y'know, emotional... s'all I could ask."

He tries a soft smile.

"Were _ you _okay with it all?"

*

Mycroft mulls it over a moment. “Yes. It was- fun, ‘playing pretend.’ I don’t mind leading- I just want to be sure we don’t bite off more than we can chew with all our new toys. Especially if we are drinking beforehand.”

He squeezes Greg’s hand, smiling in return. It is, perhaps, his one lingering fear that, despite all the counseling and the pleasant weeks they’ve had together as his lover healed. he might do something to inadvertently hurt Gregory. Fortunately they have enough trust in each other now to say something if that was the case. He just needs to remind himself of it from time to time.

Blushing a bit deeper, he turns his gaze to his portion of bacon as his mind flashes over the adventures of the previous evening. “You do make a rather dashing secret agent, you know. Especially, mmm… tied up.” Mycroft clears his throat and sips his smoothie.

“You look _ very _ good tied up.”

*

The corners of Greg's mouth curve. 

"Sober next time," he suggests, fondly. "Maybe during the day... awake enough to cuddle and talk after." 

He watches Mycroft drink, feeling his heart drum happily inside his chest. 

"It _ felt _very good tied up. I liked just... being yours. All yours. Trusting you like that. Giving you permission to take whatever you want from me." Some bits of his memory are a little foggy with wine, but he remembers the feelings of it in perfect clarity - the sheer desperate enjoyment of being face-down in a pillow, his legs pinned apart, aching with need as Mycroft breached and started to fuck him. 

The memory is enough to require a slight shift upon his chair. 

"If I _ did _return the favour some time," he says, reaching for his coffee, "would that be alright? Something you'd want?"

*

Myrcroft’s blush becomes a bit more pronounced as a ripple of desire runs through his core. “I- yes. Every time you’ve brought it up the thought has been, ah- invigorating.”

That’s likely downplaying it. The notion is something closer to _ catastrophically arousing _, really. His toes curls against Greg’s calf with a subtle shudder.

“But it has been the general policy of- those who oversee people like me- that any position of relative weakness be avoided when it comes to sexual liaisons, so I have not….”

Mycroft takes a moment, sipping again, to make his words more coherent. That is something he is still working on in his personal therapy sessions: how to better speak about emotions he’s been trained to find inconvenient or problematic.

“I very much like the idea, and I trust you to do it, but I am nervous about it because I have not done it previously.” A quiet smile rises to his lips as he glances back across the table. “I have very much enjoyed the times you’ve simulated it with your own hands, however. Feeling you hold me where you like is, mmm. Quite pleasing.”

*

_ Shouldn't find it a turn-on when you're a bit shy. _

Greg meets Mycroft's glance with a gentle grin, his coffee mug held in both hands. He takes a sip and puts it down, saying,

"You're safe with me, darlin'. If we try anything like that, it'll be behind a locked door with a safe word - and we'll start small. Something you can get out of, if you have to. These things are better built up from the ground."

He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews and swallows, brushing a crumb or two from his stubble.

"The last thing I want in the world is to make you nervous, love."

*

“_ You _ do not, I assure you. I love you, and I am open to trying anything you might like.”

_ A safe word. Lord. _ This is an area Gregory has, relatively speaking, more experience, chiefly due to a greater familiarity with pornography. Having not engaged in much self-pleasure over the years, Mycroft never bothered much with the videos and pictures available- his experience is far more tied to hands-on scenarios and his own study of what his previous partners enjoyed. The technical terms of anything that might be considered _ BDSM _ are far more foreign.

Mycroft continues shooting soft, fond glances at his lover as they eat. When they’re done, he insists on doing the tidying up since Greg did the cooking, shooing Greg back upstairs to find some clothing suitable for a walk. “Unless you’d like to be introduced to the local constabulary for startling the neighbors, which I suppose may be useful for networking.”

Having made the kitchen relatively clean once more, Mycroft slips upstairs and begins looking through his bags, continually finding things that should have been hung up as soon as they arrived. _ Ah well. We were pleasantly distracted. _

“Darling, has my red tie ended up amongst your things? I was thinking of my tweed for today and it goes nicely with that….”

*

Greg emerges from the bathroom, freshly-shaved, to find that his idea of walking attire differs somewhat from Mycroft's. He's gone for dark jeans, thick socks, a grey t-shirt and a zip top - then again, he thinks with a smile, matching tweed suits for a stroll wouldn't have done them any favours.

"Let me look," he says, hefts his suitcase out from under the bed and opens it up. All of his clothes are still jumbled up inside. They were never well-folded to begin with; there's still traces of a Marmalade-shaped indent where she 'helped' him to pack. 

After a brief rummage, he spots the rogue tie lurking amongst his balls of socks. 

"Aha. Got it, gorgeous." He tugs it free, brings it across the bedroom and instead of handing it over, goes for a sly loop-over-the-head manoeuvre, grinning as he pulls his partner close. "Rrrrrr."

*

Mycroft’s hands find Gregory’s hips, his thumbs brushing the lines of his bones through the jeans. He laughs, a bright cheerful sound of genuine surprise and pleasure. 

“Hellion, you’re mean to be assisting me with getting clothing _ on, _ not providing incentive for their removal.” He steals a kiss, feeling quite fond. “You are looking rather handsome. Grey is a good color on you.”

His eyes drift up, glancing at the patch of silvery-grey he’s quite fond of, and presses another kiss, soft and light against Greg’s cheek.

“We may have to fend off eligible local ladies who’ve caught the scent of fresh blood.”

*

"We'll have to walk around with our hands in each other's back pockets," Greg murmurs, grinning as he takes another gentle kiss from his lover's mouth. "Make sure they all get the hint..."

He slips Mycroft's tie carefully beneath his collar, smoothing it round with precision and care. He might not lean towards the same sartorial choices as his lover, but he knows how to do a tie properly when he needs to. He gives Mycroft a rather dark-eyed smile as he attends to tying the knot, taking his time to make it neat.

"If we're out long enough... d'you fancy lunch somewhere? Find a café or something? We might end up coming home with another cat."

*

“I’m not sure that will fully deter some of the village ladies, love. They can be quite determined when it comes to handsome men.”

The feeling Mycroft gets watching Greg knot his tie is almost overwhelming. _ Such a loving gesture. And he looks gorgeous doing it. _It makes him imagine, perhaps, another time they might be tying each other’s ties, perhaps with bells in the background.

He swallows, running his hands up Greg’s back.

“I’d love to go out to lunch. We can make a proper day of it. A date outside of the bedroom,” he adds cheekily. “Have you asked Her Grace if she would permit another of the royal line to join us? I’m not sure if she is interested in sharing her power and her loyal servants.”

*

Greg laughs, fixing Mycroft's tie into place and leaning up to kiss his jaw. 

"She probably wouldn't thank us, would she?" he says. "She's gotten used to a certain standard of fuss and affection. Asking her to cut that in half..." 

He sucks his teeth. 

"Probably a big ask. And," he adds, with a bright glint in his eye, stroking his hands down Mycroft's back, "your local village ladies can be as determined as they like... I'm _ more _ determined. I might have to purposely slip my tongue down your throat a few times, but I'm sure they'll catch on soon enough."

He rounds Mycroft's arse, squeezing playfully.

"The handsome man's mine," he murmurs, leaning close for another kiss, "and I'm nowhere near done with him."

*

“Mm, I imagine that would help get the message across…. Though I do not believe I shall be the one in danger of such predations. I suppose I must do the same to you, then….”

Mycroft dips his hands into Greg’s pockets, squeezing gently, one brow half-lifted and a quiet smirk on his lip as he tips down into a more passionate open-mouthed kiss. _ Mine. I love you and you are mine. _

“Something like that?” he says mischievously when he finally draws back and lets them both breathe. “Now let me finish dressing, hellion, or we won’t be walking anywhere.”

With a final squeeze of Greg’s arse he extricates himself from their embrace to acquire his waistcoat and jacket. “If we follow the water we should hit a trail I still have a vague recollection of. We did not dine out much in my youth but I believe there are shops and such that way in the village, and at least a small pub.” 

*

"Might pass on the pub," Greg says, with a small grin. "Think I put enough booze away last night. I'll go get my boots on - might take me a few minutes. See you down there?"

The world outside the front door is cool and clear, the morning sunlight spilled across the lake. Greg sits on the top step to negotiate with his new walking boots. He got the laces sorted out back in London, but today will be their first proper excursion into the wild. 

He quite likes the way they make him look - ready for action, ready for anything. When he's in them, the man who looks back at him from the mirror seems like just the type to have a gorgeous partner whose family own a lakehouse. He looks like he fits in his own skin. 

It's been a happy part of his therapy, learning to embrace the thought that he deserves Mycroft - that he's a valuable partner and not just spectacularly lucky. It's not that Mycroft has ever been unappreciative in any way - far from it. It's more about understanding that appreciation, holding onto it, being proud of it.

Small moments like these, feeling good in his boots, are marking his progress for him.

Smiling to himself, Greg tightens up the laces. He's up on his feet and stretching his calves absent-mindedly against the doorstep as Mycroft appears on the stairs. 

"Ready?" Greg says, well aware he looks like he's raring to go. "It's not too cold. Don't think you'll even need gloves."

*

Mycroft takes a lingering, appreciative look over his partner, smiling. _ What a pair we make. _ Him with his tweed and something of a country squire look with his brogues and flat cap and walking stick, and Gregory, as far as Mycroft is concerned, looking like he’s about to go climb a mountain.

“No, I suppose if my hands get cold I shall have to warm them in your pockets.” He steps down to plant a kiss on his lover’s cheek, looping his arm through Gregory’s snugly. “Shall we?”

They loop around the back of the house, passing a large tree and the remains of boards that were once nailed into it, forming a ladder. Down a bit of a slope, tree-lined and soft, there’s a view of the lake and an old dock clinging on to the bank. He can still picture it as it was years ago- himself and Sherlock skipping rocks. Teaching Sherlock how to float a paper boat on the water and dragging his brother out of the lake when he got a bit too eager to try to change the boat’s direction by adjusting the current with his own hands.

Then, when they were a bit older, Sherlock telling him Mummy said they couldn’t have a real boat because Mycroft would sink it. 

He sighs quietly, tilting his head to rest on Greg’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of his lover’s aftershave. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking. 

“It’s a prettier view with you here, darling.”

*

Greg tilts his head a little to kiss Mycroft's cheek. 

"Sweet about me," he murmurs, his eyes soft as he admires Mycroft's face for a moment. This place is gorgeous, and it's doing Greg a world of good to be away from London for a while - especially when the best part of London is right here with him. He's noticed the pause, though. "You okay? You're quiet."

A few months ago, he might have worried it was something he'd done - something he'd said - or more likely, something beyond his security clearance. He'd fallen into thinking that most of Mycroft's concerns would be far too important for the likes of him, and so he shouldn't even ask.

He's since come to understand that he's always allowed to ask. 

"Penny for your thoughts," he says, tightening his arm gently around Mycroft's waist. 

*

Mycroft inhales again, steadying himself on his lover’s scent. It’s familiar and calming, something he associates with love and contentment, making it a bit easier to speak about the things he is less eager to remember.

“Not all of my memories here are fond.”

There’s quite a lot to unpack in his childhood, and he’s aware of it. It’s something therapy is only beginning to explore, and then mostly in relation to problematic habits he created early and must work harder to break. Gregory has been very helpful with easing him toward… normalcy. 

“I was- rather heavyset as a child. Mummy encouraged Sherlock’s teasing of me in the hopes it would prove an incentive. Much of that occurred here. Swimming was a trial, of course, and any attempts at boating right out once Sherlock realized he could derail any trip by shouting that we were capsizing.”

Mycroft nestles closer, squeezing Gregory in return to indicate that they can keep walking. 

“She’d be utterly horrified to learn I permit you to feed me both cake _ and _bacon,” he adds with a note of slightly self-deprecating wit. 

*

Greg's mouth pulls gently. As they walk on, he keeps his arm wrapped around Mycroft's waist - it's not the easiest way to walk, but he can't bear the thought of letting go of Mycroft in this moment.

"Not sure teasing is a healthy solution to anything," he murmurs. "'Specially not encouraging a kid to do the teasing on your behalf."

He's known since the start of their relationship that Mycroft watches his food intake quite closely. He's never wanted to butt into that, telling himself Mycroft's body comes under Mycroft's authority. Greg lucked out in his genetics; he doesn't have to give much thought to his weight. He doesn't want to be one of those people who push others into eating more than they've decided to.

It's hard to hear, all the same. He'd adore Mycroft at any size - and there's more to health than body shape, especially when you're a kid and your body's still growing.

Leaning close, Greg presses a quiet kiss to Mycroft's shoulder.

"You have cake and bacon on holiday," he murmurs, "when you're relaxing with the man who loves you no matter what... and getting in a huge amount of exercise, to boot."

*

“Mmm. You do offer a rather strenuous exercise regimen.”

Mycroft nestles as close as he can as they walk, nudging errant brush out of the way with his stick so they are not forced to part. He feels safe like this, with Gregory beside him. Safe and treasured. With birds chirping and the gentle sounds of water, it almost feels like they ought to be in a some provincial television drama. 

“Let us say Sherlock’s… challenging nature... is not entirely of his own manufacture.” He smiles fondly at his partner. “Nor is mine, I suppose. Though I think I prefer the person I am under your influence.”

He is far happier with Gregory, both in their relationship and in himself, than he had ever thought himself capable of. _ Happier, more relaxed, more… joyous, in the little things. _Things that never mattered before, like taking the time to walk in the country.

It’s something he ought to say. He reaches across to take Greg’s other hand, simultaneously fond and serious.

“I am much more comfortable with myself now, Gregory, than I ever have been before, and I know a great deal of that is credit to you. I want you to know I am very, very grateful for the generosity of spirit you have shared with me. Thank you.”

*

It's incredible to think how much good has now come out of circumstances so unsettling. Without Karen, and without Andy, Greg never would have considered counselling. He and Mycroft have shared an incredibly close and loving bond from their first few minutes of knowing each other - a couple of months ago, he'd have said there was nothing possibly to improve.

But all that closeness is now bright with honesty too, clean and healthy. 

It means that when Mycroft expresses himself like this, Greg realises how truly and deeply the words are meant.

It's enough to tighten his heart inside his chest. 

As they pause beside the water, quite alone together and surrounded on every side by nature, it crosses Greg's mind how perfect a place this would be to ask a certain question. 

It would be crazy, obviously - this early. They haven't even discussed big decisions like that yet. If Greg got down on one knee right now, Mycroft would run a mile and never look back.

All the same.

_ Someday, maybe, _ he thinks, drawing Mycroft gently into his arms. He nuzzles into his lover's hair as they hug. _ Someday when I know I won't horrify you. _

The gentle sound of the birds is incredibly soothing.

"Wish I could put it into words," he murmurs, "how happy it makes me. Sharing with you. Just spending time with you. Honestly my life was in bits when we met each other. Now, I just... J-Jesus, I wake up everyday and there's _ you. _ You bring out everything that's good in me."

*

“I don’t know that there are words, beautiful. I’ve looked.” 

Mycroft tucks his nose into the crook of Gregory’s shoulder, holding his lover close. He’d never expected to be in a relationship where he’d want to share so much, finding levels of intimacy he did not know existed. _ Marry me. Marry me and share this with me always. _

He doesn’t expect to feel so moved by the thought, but it takes a long inhale to keep him from letting the emotions that well up spill into actual tears._ I love you more than I thought I was capable of loving anyone. _

_ And I always will. _

He nuzzles back as he sighs it away- there will be no crying on a public lakefront path, not for Mycroft Holmes- and presses a kiss behind Greg’s ear.

“We bring out the best of each other, lovely. I am more complete with you than I ever would be without.”

*

_ God. _

_ God, if you knew. _

As he returns the gentle kiss, Greg runs his hands in a slow and soothing stroke down Mycroft's back. Being here like this beneath the sky is everything. It's so easy to imagine this happiness lasting on and on into the future - this is a happiness which makes the entire world feel wonderful.

"M'so glad we're here," he murmurs, and with a gentle squeeze of Mycroft's waist, he smiles against his jaw. "Feels just like I hoped it would. You and me... proper time at last. And this is just the first day."

*

“Mm, it is, isn’t it.”

It’s hard to believe, in a way, that they have so much time without interference. Mycroft has grown used to condensing all his love and affections into the short periods of time around their work, and even in the weeks they’ve had while Greg has been recuperating work has not left him entirely alone, and there have been obligations with doctors and therapists and even friends to occupy their time.

_ We can do whatever we like. _

He kisses Greg’s cheek, soft and sweet.

“Shall we continue? I think there’s a bench up this way- if it hasn’t rotted away- that has a very nice view. I find I am willing to partake in a _ selfie,_ even.”


	5. Chapter 5

The village is gorgeous - little gift shops and places to buy postcards, a pretty bistro with a view of the lake, a cosy and old-fashioned pub pride-of-place in the village square, with a handful of coffee shops too. A pleasant morning goes by just wandering around together, seeing where they might spend some time over the next two weeks. The pub runs a couples quiz on a Friday, which might be fun, if a little unfair on all the other couples; the bistro should be nice for an indulgent evening meal or two.

Greg, by his nature somewhat oblivious to flirting from strangers, and far too occupied with the happy proximity of Mycroft, misses several hopeful attempts by local ladies to catch his eye. He assumes this is just the kind of place where friendly shop-owners like to chat, especially to friendly detectives from London.

Things finally become too obvious to miss in the greeting card shop, as he's buying a postcard to send home to Marmalade. He's picked one with an illustration of pigs on a local farm. He's not sure she'll get the link to bacon on her own, but hopefully Anthea will explain.

As he hands over a five-pound note to pay, the shop-owner makes a shocked crooning noise. She ignores the money, eyeing him over her winged spectacles with the cash drawer wide open.

"Now  _ that  _ I do not believe," she says.

Greg stares at her, concerned he's done something rude without meaning to. "Sorry?"

"A man like  _ you," _ she soothes, "without a wedding ring? What a travesty." 

She drops him a gratuitous wink. 

"Or a blessing," she adds.

_ Oh Jesus.  _ Greg's face floods with colour in an instant, desperately aware of Mycroft browsing the greeting cards mere feet away. All the situation-diffusing jokes which come to mind  _ ("Yeah, well, tell my fella that...") _ seem far too close to the bone, and so he tries a nervous laugh instead. 

It's unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Now how has such a thing come about?" the shop-owner enquires, still not taking his bloody money. Greg realises he's being asked rather blatantly what's wrong with him - what fault has caused all previous women to keep on walking. "Leaving your socks all over the floor, is it?"

*

Mycroft’s brow has been steadily lifting as his ear catches not only the flagrant flirting of the shopkeep but the quiet, strained noises Gregory has been passing off as chuckles. His gaze sharpens and turns steadily, skimming over the shopkeep in an instant. She’s not a threat, of course, but she is making Gregory overtly uncomfortable, and as Mycroft does not need to run a country this week he can turn his strategic eye toward extricating his beloved from the claws of the local ladies’ fantasies.

_ That’s quite enough of that. _

Still, she isn’t an enemy agent, and he is not Sherlock. He need not descend into judgemental words over her second divorce or her desperate fantasy of wooing one of the rich men with a summer home who will pop by the shop in a Jaguar. He shall play this as he plays politics. 

“Darling, what do you think of this one?”

He steps closer, showing Gregory a postcard with a photograph of one of the lakes with birds sweeping into the air. “Aunty Anthea can show it to her if she asks where we are.”

Mycroft turns a blisteringly charming smile to the shopkeep. “Could we have this one as well? Thank you.”

*

_ Thank Christ.  _ Greg barely even notices the picture on the postcard, too relieved by Mycroft's timely intervention to take in many details right now. He instinctively steps a little closer to his lover, a neatly non-verbal  _ 'his',  _ which causes one slender pencilled eyebrow to raise. The shopkeeper makes no comment though, and returns the tight smile as she takes the second postcard.

At last she hands over a brown paper bag and their change; it comes with an unconvincingly warm, "Thank you. Have a nice day."

As they step out of the shop, Greg casts his eyes sideways. They're rather rounded and he's trying desperately not to smile. The bell jingles as the door shuts behind them.

"Gonna have to get a fake ring," he says. "Pickings must be slim on the ground around here."

*

_ Or a real one. _

It’s not something Mycroft had thought about doing so quickly- but at the same time, perhaps there is virtue in not waiting. Not when he’s sure. 

_ Perhaps. Perhaps soon is not so bad. _

“My father once mentioned that this village received a story in a leisure magazine regarding the mixture of more expensive country homes and a ‘small-village feel’, and immediately saw an uptick in residents looking for some eligible bachelor or bachelorette with an open wallet. That was years ago, mind, but I suppose some of them are still holding out hope.”

He slips his hand into Greg’s and twines their fingers together.  _ Mine. Just in case anyone else is having a gander through the window. _

“I was warned off  _ fraternizing _ with any of the locals, of course, not that I was the sort of youth liable to spend time in the local pub. The greatest threat was likely from a bookish young lady who had similar designs on Aragorn as myself.”

He squeezes Greg’s hand, glancing sideways and smiling at Gregory’s quiet mirth. 

“Shall I acquire one of those enormous plastic diamonds on a band? Something that lights up, perhaps? That may stave them off.”

*

Greg's mouth twists with amusement. 

"Get touch-sensor alarms sewn into my clothes," he suggests. "Just in case someone tries to carry me off."

He twines his fingers quietly with Mycroft's; the hopeful urge is too much for him to resist. He steps closer, loops his arms gently around Mycroft's waist and pulls him into an almost shy hug. 

"Mmhm. Love you." The words are a secret, murmured against Mycroft's jaw for him alone to hear. Greg finds himself wishing he had a few more love bites to display, visible marks of the man who loves him. A gentle hug in a sunny street will have to do. "Yours."

*

“Mine.” Mycroft brushes his nose against Greg’s cheek. “And I am yours.”

He doesn’t care if they are horrifying any lookers-on with their affection. If the village has any backwards ideas with regard to same-sex partnerings, they’ll have to get over it. Mycroft softly kisses Greg’s cheekbone, inhaling the lovely scent of his aftershave and wrapping Greg up in his arms.

_ Perhaps… might he not want to wed again? _

It’s not something he’s thought of before, but given Greg’s blush at the shopkeep’s open question about his lack of ring….  _ Maybe he wouldn’t want to wed again. Not after what she did to him.  _ If he does not, Mycroft supposes he’d make his peace with that. He’d always rather disdained of marriage himself, before Greg. Even though it’s something he’d like to do now, he’d rather they both want it equally.

He should ask, at any rate.

“Do you imagine yourself wed again, Gregory? Is that something you would like?”

*

_ God.  _

Greg shivers a little, his mouth quirking with a smile.  _ Right here in the street, darlin'? Gonna drop to one knee for me?  _ He laces his fingers gently at the bottom of Mycroft's back, taking a few seconds to pull his answer together in his mind. 

If he was utterly honest right now, he knows exactly what would come out of his mouth. 

But for all he knows, Mycroft might not even believe in marriage. The last thing he wants to do is give a wildly enthusiastic yes, if that's not a part of Mycroft's future. 

All the same, he's not going to lie. They've come too far for that. They've come too far for hiding things, too, and Greg knows there'll come a moment when he's back home in London, telling their counsellor about this. He wants to tell her with quiet pride, not regret.

Drawing a gentle breath, he answers in a murmur.

"You know what I'm like... hopeless romantic." He presses a gentle kiss to Mycroft's neck. "Always kinda wanted a forever family. Even if s'just a family of two."

Brushing a hand over Mycroft's back, he asks softly,

"What about you, love? Is that somewhere your road goes?"

*

_ Yes. With you, yes. Only with you. _

It soothes Mycroft immensely to hear Gregory say he wants it too. That nothing that demon he had the misfortune of wedding did has shattered his faith too much to try it once more. He smiles into Greg’s cheek, so fond that he may burst. His heart feels as though it is dancing.

_ Mine, soon. Mine, for always. _

“I had never much considered it an option… but someone I’ve had the fortune of spending a great deal of time with lately has made me reconsider the institution.”

He reaches his hand up, gently brushing from Greg’s neck up and over the soft hair on the back of his head.

“Yes, my road goes there. With a great deal of pleasure, might I add. Perhaps hopeless romanticism is spreading.”

*

_ Holy shit. _

Greg has to take a second to calm himself before he speaks. He opens his mouth to say something; it's not enough, his brain still reeling with breathless whirling joy. He swallows as his arms draw tight.

_ Me. With me. You'd -  _

_ With me -  _

_ S-Shit - say something, Lestrade -  _

Another deep breath of Mycroft's scent to settle himself. He can't keep the grin out of his voice; he can't keep from gently squeezing Mycroft, his heart pounding with happiness.  _ Mine, mine, mine. _

"Good to know," he says, kissing Mycroft's neck again.  _ My someday husband. Fuck.  _ "Hey... I love you."

*

Mycroft’s smile widens as he is wrapped tightly, his cheeks colouring slightly as the momentousness of it all strikes him.  _ Us. Always us.  _ It does help that he knows what answer he would get, even if he asked now.

_ We won’t have to wait at all. Not if we don’t want to. _

“I love you too, Gregory.” 

He kisses Greg high on the cheekbone, then pulls back enough to press one to his lover’s lips and exchange a look of utter love and devotion with those lovely dark eyes.  _ My partner. My love.  _

The village shopkeeps are no doubt getting quite a show, for those that happen to be looking. Mycroft takes another kiss anyway.  _ Mine. Let them see.  _ It’s also not entirely escaped him that there is at least one jewelry shop here… though it would perhaps be a bit too swift to rush in and demand rings this instant. 

“Shall we acquire lunch, best beloved? See if we can find a waitress who can stand us being rather sappy with each other and forgetting to eat as we stare fondly over the table?”

*

_ Lunch, knowing you'd marry me.  _ Greg can't hide the gently glittering happiness in his eyes.  _ Walk home, knowing you'd marry me. Cook you dinner, knowing you'd marry me.  _

He's not sure how he'll do anything normally again. He's surely going to spend the rest of his life grinning like an idiot, maybe even long after Mycroft  _ has  _ married him - and doesn't  _ that  _ cause his pulse to run wild, thinking of those days in the future when they  _ will be married.  _ He's going to be the unbearable type who occasionally just stops their trolley in the supermarket to kiss Mycroft, overcome by the joyful realisation they're actually married.

_ Oh god. You'd actually marry me. _

It's a moment before Greg remembers Mycroft asked him a question. 

He flushes, grinning nervously, and leans in to press one last shy kiss to his lover's lips.

"S-Sure. Lunch," he says. "I'd love that. What about the place round the corner? Seem to remember there was something on the menu about a luxury hot chocolate."

He takes Mycroft's hand, wrapping their fingers together happily.

"C'mon," he says, still grinning. "Share a piece of cake with me?"

*

Mycroft beams. He can read the expression on Gregory’s face as easily as if he’d deliberately analyzed his lover. He could watch this surprised, irrationally loving look on Greg’s face for hours, though it’s just as good watching him lose himself in fond reverie.  _ I shall bring you this joy every day, if I can. Let me thrill you always. _

“Hmmm, hot chocolate and cake? How indulgent.” Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand in turn. “Of course, darling.”

There may be a few glances as they finally walk on, but Mycroft ignores them, uncaring whether the watchers are wishing them well or ill. He has his beloved and that is all he needs. 

The cafe is small but it smells wonderful, and it’s not long before their lunches appear, their waitress fairly amused by the way they keep just smiling at each other and giggling over their cocoas. He suspects that is how they earn a fairly thick slice of cake, with a gratuitous amount of fudge.

“I do hope you are prepared to carry me back after I process all this sugar and simply collapse.”

*

_ I would literally carry you to the top of the nearest mountain if you asked.  _

Greg weaves his fingers fondly with Mycroft's on the tabletop, taking up their cake fork in the other hand. He uses it to cut a first neat triangle from the slice. 

"Sure we'll make it, darlin'," he says. He glances up with a soft smile. "Nice long nap when we get home?"

Scooping the cake carefully onto the fork, he offers it across the table to his lover's lips. His grin brightens his eyes; he doesn't care if every other customer in this café decides they must be newly-weds. It almost feels like they are.

_ God, should I... ask you?  _

_ Make plans?  _

Mycroft seemed pretty comfortable with the idea. He's certainly happy now. He wouldn't be like this, would he, if he was wanting to wait a few more years? If he was playing it cool? It feels like there's understanding in the air. 

_ It should feel like too soon, but... Jesus, we're both old enough to know what we want. We're not silly kids. And we're happy. _

_ We could always be this happy. _

*

_ Feeding me. In public.  _ Mycroft can already tell they’re going to be the sort of married couple that will make young people roll their eyes while inwardly hoping they are so lucky when they’re older.  _ Holding hands at the theater. Sitting in parks.  _

The idea that  _ he _ gets to have this has not yet quite sunk in. It still feels a bit like someone else’s life, even though he’s been thinking about it for a while now. Perhaps some part of him did not truly think he could have permanent happiness- but that part has vanished now. All he feels is dominated by an irrational sense of joy.

He eats his forkful of cake like it’s the most decadent thing he’s ever has, his eyes on Gregory and full of warmth. 

“A nice long nap. If I can make it all the way there.”

_ Perhaps a nude nap. I want to feel you. Tell myself this is real again. _

“This is rather like our early dates, you know. Cocoa and cake. Though I somewhat doubt they have a cat lurking in the kitchen.”

*

"Feels like a lifetime ago," Greg says, fondly, dividing off another mouthful of cake. "I used to live for those Sundays, you know that? You and her. Can't believe I only used to have you once a week."

He feeds the cake to Mycroft with a smile, his eyes bright. He's not had any for himself yet. He'd rather watch Mycroft eat it - however good this thing tastes, it can't possibly taste better than the sight of Mycroft enjoying it.

"Sometimes when I look at Marmalade now... I don't know. It's like she knew from the first day, y'know? She knew how it would all play out. Knew she'd end up living happy ever after, if only she got us to sit next to each other for five minutes. That's all it'd take."

*

“I am sure she did. I wonder if perhaps she is a bit fey- manipulating the humans to her benevolent will. I suppose we should have warned Anthea that without us at home Marmalade may start in on her next.”

Mycroft knows well Anthea is planning to take full advantage of unfettered access to his film library and the benefits of a purring cat on one’s lap to personal relaxation. The wine he’d laid in for her will probably help as well, heavens know she’ll need it after managing his new division entirely on her own for a bit, particularly with Sir Edwin still lurking about and making disgruntled noises that Mycroft and his team have escaped his purview.

“I would not have been brave enough on my own, you know. You are far too handsome.” Mycroft smiles, his fingers lightly stroking Greg’s hand.

“I would have kept reading, and sneaking looks when I thought you could not see me.”

*

Greg's quite sure the slight squish of his heart is audible. He grins, curling his fingers with Mycroft's, then abandons the cake fork entirely to wrap both his hands around his lover's. He's always liked Mycroft's hands - long, elegant fingers. Nothing like his own hefty paws.

"Still kinda amazed you think I'm handsome... gives me a thrill whenever you say it." 

He rubs his thumb gently over Mycroft's pulse, tracing a slow circle.

"You know I'd never have dared approach a guy like you? Still remember the suit you were wearing. You just looked... so  _ cool, _ so gorgeous. Just sitting there, reading your book with her." His eyes sparkle. "Didn't think people like you even existed in the same world as me."

*

“Cool,” Mycroft repeats, his lip twitching upward. “Gregory, I am quite certain no one in my life has  _ ever _ mistaken me for  _ cool. _ ”

With his spare hand, he plucks up the cake fork and carves off a small piece, holding it out to Greg’s lips as his eyes glitter with affection. 

“Nor gorgeous neither.”

True, he is aware he has a certain degree of charisma- it is a useful thing for politics, certainly. But Gregory truly, genuinely adores his appearance, no matter the flaws Mycroft himself sees in it. He squeezes Greg’s hands, hopelessly in love.

“Perhaps Marmalade enacted a spell of bravery upon us both, ensuring we would be more daring than we would otherwise be as just ourselves.”

*

"You're both," Greg says, gripping Mycroft's hands gently. "F'you could see through my eyes, you'd know it. You're perfect. I'm not the only one who thinks it."

He leans forward, holding Mycroft's gaze as he takes the cake gently from the fork. He keeps Mycroft's eyes in his own while chewing, unable to hide the slight shine of enjoyment at the taste. Chocolate fudge is always going to be his weakness. It tastes even better, here on holiday somewhere quiet and beautiful.

_ Only the first day,  _ he thinks, his heart pattering.  _ Two weeks to go. _

_ God, how happy will we be after two whole weeks?  _

_ Probably engaged by the time we go home. _

Brushing his fingers gently beneath Mycroft's cuffs, stroking the inside of both wrists, Greg smiles with every bit of the warmth he's feeling.

"Whatever she did," he murmurs, "m'glad she did it. Only get more glad by the day."

*

“As am I.” Mycroft lifts Greg’s knuckles to his lips, brushing a kiss over them. “I love you very much, Gregory.”

By the time they finish their cake, eaten slowly and thoroughly savored with quite a lot of giggling and smiling, everyone present must assume they are honeymooning. That they walk out hand in hand and leave a large tip simply furthers matters. The village gossip mill knows there’s apparently a wealthy gay couple on holiday before it’s time for supper.

They meander back past a few more gift shops, pausing to browse over the wares. Mycroft places an order for a matched set of gold keychains in the shape of small cats, with  _ G & M _ to be inscribed on the back. It’s entirely irrational, how much he wants to engage with these frivolous little signs of affection.

He  _ loves  _ them. Because he loves Greg.

By the time they wander back to the lakefront path, Mycroft is so far gone that he pinches Gregory’s bum as soon as the opportunity arises, then immediately blushes, smiling and looking out to the water.

“This is entirely your fault for sugaring me up, you know.”

*

Greg's yelp of surprise startles a small flock of birds from a nearby tree. He breaks into laughter as he realises what happened, then glances round to see if they're alone.

They are.

The grin he gives Mycroft is entirely wicked, his eyes flashing with mischief.

"Are you aware," he says,  _ "Holmes, _ that assaulting an officer of the law is a crime in this country? Sugar or no sugar."

He steps into Mycroft's body, backing him up against the tree.

"Looks like we'll have to detain you here 'til the sugar-high ebbs," he murmurs, pressing Mycroft into place, "or god knows what you'll do to me before we get home."

*

Mycroft’s face flushes deeper as he takes in the scandalously dangerous look in Greg’s eyes. His own eyes have darkened a bit by the time his back hits the tree, his previous giddy excitement melding easily into excitement of a very different sort.

_ Hellion. On a public path, no less. _

Strangely, Mycroft does not mind as much as he probably ought. 

_ What a terrible influence you are on me.  _

_ Never stop. _

“Assault? That sounds very serious.”

He coyly slips his hands about Greg’s hips, sliding them up and under his warmer layers to find the heat beneath. With his lashes lowered, he very deliberately traces his tongue over his lower lip.

“Am I under arrest, officer?”

*

Greg feels his stomach tighten in immediate response to that coy glimpse of tongue. He bites his own lip, more than intrigued; the delicious chill of Mycroft's hands upon his back is impossible to ignore.

"S'for your own good," he murmurs, with a feigned soft severity. It turns out pretty well, and Greg's pleased; it must be all the acting practice he had last night. "I'm lenient. I'll be understanding over a small thing like goosing a police officer's arse without provocation. But if I let you loose around here, you'll be up to no good within minutes."

He leans closer, his cheek brushing against Mycroft's as he brings his mouth to his lover's ear.

"I know your type, Holmes," he whispers. "I know your tricks."

*

Mycroft inhales a bit shakily. Good lord, why on earth is “ _ Holmes” _ titillating him? He’ll never be able to interact at work again.

“Mm, do you?  _ All  _ of my tricks? Then why have you not arrested me for any prior offenses,  _ officer? _ ”

He slides his hands lower, cupping Greg’s arse fully.  _ Why wait minutes? I might be up to no good in seconds. _

“I rather protest your assertion that there has been no provocation involved. I find myself most definitively provoked.”

Following a firm squeeze, Mycroft cannot help a sly grin as he tweaks both cheeks simultaneously.

*

_ God. Marry me.  _

_ Marry me, you gorgeous bastard. Marry me and do filthy things to me in wedded bliss forever. _

As Mycroft squeezes his arse, it's only natural for Greg to roll his hips forwards in response. He grinds against Mycroft without a stroke of shame, sharing the growing bulge of his erection through his jeans, and reaches up to catch Mycroft's ear. 

He nips it, gently, then soothes it with a brush of his tongue.

"Maybe I've benefited privately from your previous offences," he husks, letting his voice ease low in his chest. "You've crossed the line now. Can't overlook this. Innocent eyes could be along at any second... s'my duty to keep them safe from your shenanigans."

*

Mycroft exhales a low, quiet moan, the nip at his ear equally as arousing as the feeling of Greg’s cock shifting against him. He is already filling out himself, very conscious of the growing thickness pressing against the inside of his trousers.

“I’m not so sure, inspector, that it’s innocent eyes you are worried about. Are you quite certain you don’t mean to abscond with me to somewhere so you might  _ benefit privately _ ?”

He presses his thigh against Greg’s jeans, rubbing up into the bulge, delighting in the naughtiness of it- the toeing of the line of propriety with how much they might get away with in the full light of day, and the obvious enjoyment Gregory takes in the threat of real exhibitionism.

_ I love you, hellion. _

_ Make your mischief on me. _

“Or shall you actually lock me up this time? Keep me far away from influencing the poor, naive public….”

*

Greg's gaze flickers with enjoyment, his teeth plying gently into his lip as Mycroft's thigh rubs up against him. This is getting a little bit delicious now. He's not sure how he'll keep control of himself all the way back to the house.

"Mmhm... maybe I should get you safely secured somewhere, and we can talk about this further. You gonna behave while I escort you home?"

He reaches down for Mycroft's grip on his arse, links their fingers together and then shifts Mycroft's hands against the bark of the tree, pinning them into place.

His eyes glitter.

"Otherwise I might not feel so lenient by the time we get there."

*

“I make no promises,  _ officer. _ ”

Mycroft’s cheeks are flushed, his lips just parted in a silent gasp. Pinning him to things shall apparently always be too advantageous for Gregory- Mycroft simply cannot resist the pleasure of it, the anticipation of Gregory doing whatever he likes. Already his pants feel a touch damp, his cock fully interested- god help them if they do run into any other casual walkers on the trail.

Frankly, walking is going to prove an interesting venture for himself as well.

But the delay in gratification is its own delight. Knowing that when they get back to the house he’s likely to get pinned to the door seconds after it closes- he could linger in those pleasant, aching feelings of longing all day.

“I suppose you’ll have to see if I can  _ behave _ at all.”

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: The word "slut" is used in this chapter in a way that everyone involved enjoys and finds sexy. If that's a squick for you, jump to the next chapter at "stop being so cocky." -Lux

Two conversations take place on the way home. One is audible, light and easy - plans for dinner, hopes for the rest of the holiday, day trips they might go on further afield if the fancy strikes them. 

The other conversation is unspoken. It takes place in the wrap of Greg's arm around Mycroft's waist, the lingering glances they give each other and the brightness of their eyes. Greg knows very well what will happen as soon as they find themselves alone. He knows Mycroft knows it, too. 

It's hard to put out of his mind. 

They pass few people on the path. For the last half a mile, Greg's hand eases down from Mycroft's waist to his arse. Their conversation grows lower and softer as they get nearer to home. Greg remains perfectly innocent and fond, chatting as if he's not aching inside with the thought of throwing Mycroft across the first piece of furniture they reach. Something about fucking during the day makes him feel young and wild.

As they reach the front door, Greg retrieves his key from his back pocket. The illusion of conversation finally ends. He unlocks the front door, steps aside and holds it open for his partner, regarding Mycroft with a quietly smouldering look of intent.

"You behaved," he notes, his mouth curving. "M'surprised."

*

_ Good god, finally. _

Finally, now that they’re at the threshold, Mycroft no longer needs to worry about trying to restrain his burgeoning erection or the flush of warmth that began to spread through his body as soon as they were in sight of the house. The ache that had grown so much worse as soon as Greg’s hand slipped past his hip and possessively moved to his arse may be given full attention.

“Mm, did I?”

Mycroft steps beside Greg, very casually holding up a wallet. It’s not his wallet, of course. 

It’s Greg’s.

“I’m afraid I simply couldn’t help myself. Of course this does mean I grabbed your arse again,” he smiles coyly. “Just that you didn’t feel it that time. Seeing as you were so distracted with _ my _ arse, _ officer. _”

With a light, mischievously bounce in his step he strides past his lover and into the house, turns, and bats his eyes.

“Does this mean leniency is off the table?”

*

_ How many times am I gonna think 'marry me' at you before I accidentally blurt it out? _

Greg has a feeling it's only a matter of time - especially if Mycroft keeps looking at him like _ that. _He steps into the house, fighting a grin with every fraction of his resolve, and closes the door behind him. Its gentle click seems significant in the quiet.

"I think we're past leniency now," he says, with feigned regret. He moves towards Mycroft slowly, thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. "Clearly you're determined to be trouble today. But I'll give you one last chance, seeing as I'm so reasonable. Hand over the stolen property, and I'll take a minute off your time for good behaviour."

*

_ What if I should like to add minutes? Or years? Or a lifetime? Keep me with you forever, Gregory, it shall be no punishment at all. _

With an obviously feigned display of resignation, Mycroft hands over the wallet- sans the entirety of the cash in it, which remains ensconced in one of his pockets. _ Likely not how Uncle Rudy intended me to use that trick, but then again Sherlock is far worse with abusing that skill. _He teases the edge of his lower lip gently between his teeth, projecting the image of deceptive innocence.

“Surely you will not throw the book at me for a bit of arse-goosing, officer. I hardly have a record…. save for a bit of indecent behavior.”

*

Greg takes the wallet with a raised eyebrow, his eyes glittering as he slides it away into his back pocket.

"See... you _ say _ these things," he murmurs, reaching out and easing his hands around Mycroft's waist, "but I'm not all that certain you're sorry. Indecent behaviour's becoming a habit of yours. How do I know you won't be goosing my arse again at the first opportunity?"

His hands round Mycroft's rump, coaxing him closer with a slow smile.

"M'gonna need a show of regret, Holmes. Or I'll have to figure out some other way to teach you about indecent behaviour."

*

“What if I don’t regret it at all? I cannot with a clear conscience lie to an officer of the law, can I? That must be a much more horrid offence.”

Mycroft steps against Greg, his burgeoning interest tight against his trousers as he brushes close. He nuzzles his nose against Greg’s neck, following it with a gentle trace of his tongue. His lover smells like chocolate and wood, and Mycroft could bathe in it for _ hours. _

His hands slip across Greg’s hips, matching his partner’s positioning, though of course he has nefarious intent on that pert curve. He squeezes, like he’s selecting a ripening fruit, his fingers daringly close to the cleft of Greg’s arse.

“Perhaps I am willing to do something rather indecent to get off….” Mycroft takes Greg’s earlobe in his mouth and tugs slyly. “Since I don’t think you have it in you to make me behave.”

*

Greg closes his eyes, letting the quiet sweep of darkness settle the rush of arousal caused by the little tug of his ear. Mycroft knows every single one of his buttons; he knows just how to press them.

Maybe it's time to discover some new buttons of Mycroft's. 

There are things they haven't been able to share before - things that have been rightful security concerns. 

It feels like a good day to explore.

Lifting his chin, allowing Mycroft access to his throat, Greg slides his hands to cup Mycroft's cheeks through his trousers, squeeze and rather shamelessly part.

"Good to hear you're willing," he murmurs, his voice slipping into its very lowest tones. "S'all I need to know. I think I'll take charge of the rest of this. See if we can exercise some of this mischief out of you."

He reaches down, hooking his arm behind Mycroft's knees.

"Arms round my neck," he says, and sweeps him off his feet, carrying him against his chest with apparently little effort. They proceed up the stairs towards the bedroom. "How willing is 'willing'?"

*

After a rather startled yelp of “Gregory!” when he is lifted, Mycroft settles into his lover’s chest, heart racing a bit at how easily Greg can carry him. Perhaps it’s to do with his height, but Mycroft has rarely had partners who could fully lift him, let alone abscond with him up a flight of stairs.

He turns his lips in, nuzzling a kiss against Greg’s neck. _ My strong love. _

Gregory’s question sends one of his brows upward. _ Nefarious plans, my love? _ Oh, but that is intriguing. His cock twitches with just the suggestion of what that may entail, particularly since Gregory also just said he’d _ “take charge _” in a pitch of voice that may be capable of removing Mycroft’s pants and flinging them into the distant reaches of space. 

He swallows, keeping his voice even.

“I think you’ll find me _ very _willing, officer. I’m sure you’ve seen my file, but I do have a noted tendency to be a rather shameless slattern when the mood strikes.”

*

_ I love you. _

It's so hard not to kiss the top of Mycroft's head and croon the words. He's incredibly appealing when he's playful; Greg still considers it a marvel that he gets to play with the slattern behind the politician. 

In the interests of character, he refrains from saying the words of love out loud - but they're there in the gentle tightening of his hands, the smirk as he nudges open the bedroom door, the brightness of his eyes as he lays Mycroft down.

"So," he murmurs, unzipping his jacket, "we're looking at assaulting a police officer, attempted theft and thoroughly indecent behaviour in a public place. Anything else you want to add to your list of crimes before we begin?"

*

Out of perhaps Pavlovian habit, as soon as Greg unzips his jacket Mycroft gets his shoes off. No matter what precisely Gregory has planned for the rest of the game, those would only get in the way later. 

He scoots up the bed to lounge in the pillows, working his tongue between his teeth as he watches Gregory. His heart has not slowed down one beat- it’s too anticipatory, waiting to see what his lover has planned and giving over the feeling of being in charge.

It also means he’s not sure what to say that will earn him the ‘best’ response, because here he’s not entirely sure what ‘best’ might mean. 

_ Not yet. Take me and show me, love. _

Honesty seems like a fair bet, for now. He turns his fond smile into a casual, lascivious gaze, like this criminal slattern iteration of himself is hardly bothered by anything a police office may think to ask of him, no matter how lewd.

“I suppose in the interest of a fair trial, I might suggest that anyone who has stolen goods returned to them might first ensure all the contents are as they were previously….”

*

It takes Greg a second to catch on. 

When he does, he visibly runs his tongue around his teeth to smother a smile. He stays where he is at the end of the bed, reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his wallet, flipping it open to make a quick search of his cards. The surprise comes as he checks for his bank notes, and finds a conspicuous lack of any money whatsoever.

Still fighting a smile, he discards the emptied wallet on the top of the dresser.

"Revising my charge of 'attempted theft'," he says. "I don't know why I'm surprised, Holmes. Now unless you threw it all in the lake when I wasn't looking, I'm assuming it's still on you somewhere."

He crosses his arms over his chest, lifting his chin.

"Which means I'll need to search you," he says. "Up - now. Come stand here."

He indicates with his foot the end of the bed, right in front of one of the four posts. 

"And no cheek."

*

Mycroft has to look down to keep his own smile in check- he plays it off as a kind of coy contriteness as he crawls across the bed toward his lover. He pauses a moment to gaze at Greg under his lashes, rather enjoying the feigned seriousness Gregory has put on.

“I’m terribly sorry, officer. I simply couldn’t help myself.”

It doesn’t escape him that Gregory is lining him up with one of the posts again, and that alone is enough to make his cock give a hopeful little leap. Mycroft has been enjoying it when Greg has been confident enough to back him into the nearest bit of furniture or wall or bed and pin him there, even when it’s just to kiss him silly.

Somehow he has a feeling this will be a touch more involved, and it makes his stomach flutter with excitement.

Mycroft slides off the bed and very much into Greg’s space. His hands land on Greg’s hips, just like he’s balancing himself although he obviously needs no help with that.

“Oops,” he says even as his thumbs brush inward, stroking the strong muscles of Greg’s abdominals. 

“Is this where you want me, officer?”

*

"'Terribly sorry', huh? I thought you weren't gonna lie to an officer of the law."

Greg's expression doesn't move as Mycroft takes a sly stroke of his stomach. His pleasure is all in the glitter of his eyes, soft with this playful new fun between them. He regards Mycroft closely for a moment, just taking him in, hoping this memory won't return the next time he has to search some scruffy teenage oik.

"Turn around," he murmurs. "One hand either side of the post."

*

Mycroft flushes, the low ripple of desire he feels too much to prevent his blood from so obviously heating. His imagination is strong when he lets it have rein, and he can already picture Gregory in an uniform as he gives his quiet orders.

He licks his lips as he turns. Something about having his back to Greg actually makes all this much worse, seeing as his mind is already prepared to imagine Officer Gregory having his way with Mycroft.

Wrapping his fingers about the wood is enough to make his cock twitch. Again. 

_ Lord. Going to condition myself at this rate. _

He doesn’t separate his legs, however, specifically because Gregory did not ask, and Mycroft is still feeling quite mischievous.

A brow lifts as he glances over his shoulder, hiding the eager smirk on his lips.

*

Greg watches as Mycroft positions himself nicely. He's amused by the little eyebrow lift he's given; he keeps his smile to himself.

"Face forwards," he says, and waits for acquiescence before he takes any further action.

Mycroft will no doubt hear the sound of the wardrobe door opening, the quiet zip of Greg's suitcase, and a short search which concludes with the wardrobe being shut again. Greg then returns across the room, his steps measured and slow on the carpet.

He eases close to his partner, pressing gently against his back. He reaches his mouth to Mycroft's ear. As he speaks, it's in a voice gentled with love and reassurance - a murmured secret, one last shared fondness before they relax and play.

"If you want out at any point," he says, softly, "tell me 'postcard'... alright? I can undo these in moments. Front door's locked downstairs. It's just me and you, love."

His hands slide slowly along Mycroft's forearms, gather around his wrists and move them slightly closer together. Greg kisses Mycroft's jaw; then a slender curve of metal eases around one wrist.

It clicks into place. 

As he secures the other handcuff, locking Mycroft to the post, Greg brushes his lips fondly against the shell of his lover's ear. 

"Mm hmm?"

*

The quiet shuffling in the wardrobe skyrockets Mycroft’s pulse. He thinks he feels it stall entirely when Greg whispers to him.

_ ‘Postcard?’ That is a… safe word. _

He blinks, the thrill of what that could entail for him cascading through him with wild abandon as Greg’s hands stroke over his arms. When the metal clicks, just a bit cool on his skin, he actually moans, soft and quiet from the back of his throat.

Nuzzling into Greg’s touch the best he can, he nods. “I understand.” He pulls gently, just to test the feel of them, the gentle clinking strangely erotic.

“I love you,” he adds, feeling like he ought before he resumes the role of his rather unrepentant criminal slattern.

“God, I love you.”

*

"I love you, too." Greg presses their cheeks together for a moment; it's strangely intimate, sharing this. The cuffs are Scotland Yard issue. They're the real deal, not the trick kind sold in adult shops. There's a key now sitting out of reach on top of the dresser. Whether the bed or the cuffs would break first, Greg doesn't know. "I love you so much."

One last gentle kiss brushes the side of Mycroft's neck. Greg then steps away, letting one form of connection end so another can begin. 

As the silence aches around them, Greg eases his jacket back from his shoulders. He tosses it away into a corner chair and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The core of authority returns to him easily; he smiles to himself, taking a moment just to enjoy the quiet tension.

"There," he murmurs. "That's a start in getting you to behave, at least. And my arse is safe from goosing for a few minutes."

*

“Does your arse require so much protection?”

Mycroft rolls his neck, sliding back into his persona. Cheekily, he shoots a faux glare over his shoulder. 

“Besides, I’m told it’s very enjoyable when I _ don’t _ behave. Are you _ certain _ you don’t wish for me to show you? Officer?”

He can step around to the side of the post, he realizes, and afford himself both a better view of his lover as well as keep within the mischief he has owned for himself. 

“Or is it that you’re worried you enjoyed a bit of arse-goosing too much? Ah, that’s it, isn’t it. Are you worried I shall sully your sterling reputation with my scandalous wiles?”

*

Greg meets this accusation with a look of mild amusement, his arms folded across his chest as he watches Mycroft move around the post. _ Toying with me, darlin'. So secure that we can do this. _

Life is good, he thinks.

"You and your scandalous wiles are pretty restricted in your options now," he points out, one eyebrow lifting. "Looks like my sterling reputation's out of danger. Now, are you going to sidle back round to where I told you to stand so I can search you - or is there something you're trying to hide?"

*

Mycroft’s tongue finds the edge of his teeth and traces a canine thoughtfully. _ My hellion. _With an exaggerated sigh, he lofts a glare in Gregory’s direction and turns, leaning off the pole rather like an exotic dancer to return to his original place.

“I am not restricted in all of my options, you know. And I’m quite certain I have nothing to hide.”

This time he spreads his legs, jutting out his arse a ways. “Shall I assume the position, officer? I know you’ll want to take your time… searching.”

*

Greg's eyebrow arches with great interest at the neat little pole swing. _ Something for later in the week, _he thinks, and immediately wonders if Mycroft's mother - who has already become something of a character in Greg's mind - would appreciate having a pole installed in one of her posh guest bedrooms. 

He comes closer, slowly, and steps into Mycroft's body. The first contact between them is his pelvis with Mycroft's arse; a firm nudge flattens Mycroft up against the pole.

"Stand up straight," Greg murmurs, "and stop trying to distract me. Otherwise I'll miss somewhere and have to check you twice."

He begins the systematic pat-down any common criminal would get in the street - checking for weapons first, anything obvious, arms and sides and down each leg to Mycroft's ankles. The motions are instinctive and performed functionally; Greg then straightens up, feigns a sigh, and commences a more thorough search.

He stands behind Mycroft to check his torso first, running his hands flat over his chest - with far more slowness this time, feeling the fabric of his waistcoat and checking for any distortion. 

"Hmm. All the layers help you hide things, do they?" He slides his fingers into Mycroft's waistcoat pockets, then back out, moving over to his buttons. "Shame you're not in a position to protest."

*

“So you would prefer a protest?”

In truth, every stroke of Gregory’s hands over Mycroft’s clothes has been enough to bring him most of the way to hardness. He couldn’t explain it if he tried- Gregory is not even being very sexual about it- but it is, as Gregory likes to say, _ working for him. _

He rocks his hips back into Greg’s, rolling them as best he can to give them a spot of friction. _ A distraction. _

“What sort of protest, officer? Worried I might be carrying a thick truncheon to use on you?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Mycroft winks cheerily. 

“Or would you rather hear me scream?”

*

Greg idles his way through the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat, slipping them apart one after the other as he listens. A low chuckle accompanies the parting of the final one.

"How exactly're you planning to take me down with a truncheon?" he asks, as he strokes the waistcoat open and smoothes his hands over the shirt beneath. "Have to say, I'd be impressed... not an easy thing to wield while cuffed to a post."

He makes sure he can feel every single inch of Mycroft's skin through the fabric; his fingertips skim lightly over Mycroft's nipples. 

"Scream if you want," he says, as his hands glide back up Mycroft's sides. "Should warn you this'll take a while, though. You might be a bit hoarse by the time we're done."

He begins to loosen Mycroft's tie, turning up his collar to free it.

"You know something, Holmes? I think you're all mouth."

*

Mycroft harrumphs, though it lacks its normal fire. He’s far too close to open groaning at the continued feeling over of his clothes.

_ I shall have to ask, later, how you manage that with your hands alone. _

It makes him half want to try and see if he could come that way- never even properly touched. Mycroft isn’t sure he could manage it, but there’s always merit in experimentation. And he’s fairly certain Greg would be quite an enthusiastic participant in such a scientific endeavor.

“Uncuff me, officer, and I could put my mouth to better use. Would you like that? None of these meaningless little charges, just me on my knees for you….”

*

Greg huffs, slides Mycroft's tie free and throws it into the chair in the corner.

"I'm not falling for that," he murmurs, as he checks the pockets of Mycroft's jacket. Finding them empty, he slides his hands past Mycroft's waist and into his trouser pockets, searching them deeply. "Hmm."

He knows exactly where the money is. He spotted it in Mycroft's back pocket during his cursory check - and so ignores there entirely, kneeling down instead to slide his hands along Mycroft's right leg. He takes his examination slowly down to the floor, then reaches under the hem of Mycroft's trousers to brush against the snippet of skin just over his sock.

Back up, his fingertips skim so high they press gently against Mycroft's balls - then swap immediately to the other leg. He repeats the whole thing, down to the floor and briefly touching against flesh, back up and far higher than a usual search would stray.

"How did I know you'd make this hard for me, Holmes?" he asks, soothing his hands around Mycroft's arse and blatantly ignoring the obvious wedge of cash in his captive's back pocket. "Looks like we'll have to take this up a few levels. You've only got yourself to blame."

*

Mycroft’s breath catches when Greg brushes his balls- it’s so, so very close to his cock that he has to swallow a slightly desperate noise, rocking out of instinct onto the balls of his feet. _ Fuck, I’m going to be aching for it by the time he gets anywhere. _Perhaps that’s the point.

Well, Mycroft does pride himself on his self-control. He’ll manage.

The cuffs clink gently against the wood as he adjusts his hands, the post providing a stabilizing point against his desire to just hurl himself to the bed and tell Gregory to fuck him absolutely senseless.

“Would you like me to make anything else hard for you? Sometimes that’s the best way to get it up- sorry, _ take _ it up- to higher levels.”

*

"You and that mouth," Greg notes, rising back to his feet. "I wonder at what point you stop being so cocky. Can't wait to find out."

He reaches around Mycroft's torso, undoing the top button of his shirt with a careful twist.

"Maybe it's when you realise I've got you cuffed to a pole, nearly naked with your legs spread open wide, and the only person who'll decide when you can go is me."

As he works his way downwards through the buttons, Greg rests his other hand on Mycroft's lower stomach. His fingers follow Mycroft's waistband with idle interest, then brush a little lower.

Greg huffs softly.

"You little slut," he remarks, and cups Mycroft between the legs, slowly squeezing his hardened cock. "Look at this... barely onto the strip part of the strip search. What kind of a mess're you gonna be in when I'm done?"

*

“_ Cocky _ is a bit on the nose, isn’t it- ah-” Mycroft breaks off, his legs quivering when Gregory finally clutches him. “ _ Fuck-” _

His hands clutch the post as need floods through him like a wave. It feels like the only way he’ll manage to stay upright. He inhales slowly, shakily, to steady himself, mentally noting that Gregory could likely get away with calling him a slut as much as he likes, so long as he uses that low, slightly predatory tone. There's no logical reason for it, it simply... plays in to some manner of fantasy he hadn't even realized he had.

“Don’t act like you aren’t a bit excited to make a mess of me, officer. I think you’re very much looking forward to seeing me stripped down and in your hands.”

A long exhale comes with Mycroft closing his eyes, stabilizing as best he can as the hormones of sexual desire race through him. They do not always hit him so hard, but there’s nothing alarming about their presence. Not when he’s with Gregory.

“Not such a paragon of the law when you have someone at your mercy, are you?”

*

Greg chuckles softly, darkly, pulling Mycroft's shirt free from his trousers and undoing the last couple of buttons.

"You're gonna tell me off for acting unlawfully, are you?" he says, as he spreads the now open garment apart. "Not sure that's your place, Holmes..."

He places his palms flat on Mycroft's stomach, stroking upwards to his chest. He rakes his fingertips over his lover's bare skin with unconcealed enjoyment, savouring every inch of Mycroft's body and being allowed to touch it unimpeded, to access wherever he wishes.

He husks in Mycroft's ear as he strokes, pressing his thickening cock against the plush seat of Mycroft's arse.

"And for what it's worth?" he murmurs, his voice dark and deliciously dirty. "We all get bored. We all come across gorgeous little sluts like you, teasing us, trying to press our buttons. Sometimes we take the law into our own hands."

His fingertips come to focus around Mycroft's nipples, shaping and pinching them gently.

"Call it community outreach," he breathes. "A very specific, very specialised programme."

*

Mycroft perhaps meant to say something cheeky in retort, but all that comes out is a breathy sort of whimper, muffled by his clenched teeth. He can already see the coroner’s report: _ Cause of death- Gregory Lestrade’s voice and Gregory Lestrade’s damnable hands. _

He is most certainly dampening his pants with precum now, his cock fully and eagerly interested, even if he has no idea when Gregory might return his attentions there. Curling his toes helps a bit in redirecting his energy, in addition to forcing him to focus on his balance.

It is, admittedly, a bit harder to do this standing up than he expected. _ Far easier to let go when lying down. _

“Is that a government benefit I haven’t heard of?” 

His voice comes out higher, breathier than it has, but it’s the best he can do as the flush of arousal across his skin spreads from his face to his chest.

“I think I might benefit immeasurably from that sort of service.”

*

Greg huffs, taking Mycroft's earlobe between his teeth for a restless tug. 

"This isn't for your benefit," he breathes as he releases it, and runs one hand with aching slowness down the front of Mycroft's body. "This is for my benefit. Behave yourself, and we'll see if I can find you some of that leniency I promised."

His hand cups itself back around Mycroft's groin, gripping him through his trousers and squeezing slowly.

"Here's what's about to happen," he whispers in Mycroft's ear, still toying with one of his nipples with the other hand. "I'm gonna strip these trousers off you. You'll spread your pretty legs for me, and we'll see how long you can cope on my tongue before you're begging me for something better. I'm then going to fuck you. _ Hard. _ And we both know you've been due a proper fucking for some time. Before I begin, this is your last chance to apologise for goosing me. D'you have anything you wanna say?"

  



	7. Chapter 7

If this is the response he gets for goosing Gregory, Mycroft may consider doing it with some regularity.  _ Apologize? Absolutely not. _

_ Lord.  _

_ Fuck. _

He makes a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat because it’s that or moan openly when Gregory squeezes his cock. Even through his trousers the combination of that touch and the slow tweaking of his nipple and Gregory’s voice is making him  _ ache.  _ He’s never considered his nipples overly sensitive but the more Gregory plays with them the more of a delicious sort of burning pleasure he feels.

“I’ll never apologize,” he says, voice still breathy, even a little giddy with his lack of repentance. “Never. You deserved a good goosing and I was more than happy to get my hands on your luscious, pert arse.”

*

"Is that so?" Greg murmurs. 

He lets go of Mycroft's cock at once, reaching instead for the clasp of his trousers. 

"Then you're about to learn a lesson in turnabout and fairplay," he says as he undoes the fastening, taking his time to slide the catch apart. Lowering the zip, he makes sure to avoid even the gentlest pressure on Mycroft's cock. His lover will have to wait for that relief now. "A lesson in deserving things, too."

With the zip undone, he loosens Mycroft's trousers and underwear, working both down to the tops of his thighs. He'd planned to strip them all the way off, but finds he likes the opportunity of Mycroft exposed like this. 

He reaches for Mycroft's earlobe with his mouth, catching it gently between his teeth as he strokes his lover's arse. His palms smooth over each pale mound, admiring.

"Mhmm..." He gives a slow squeeze and parts them, glorying a little in this feeling of authority.  _ All mine. Mine to play with. Mine to tease.  _ "I bet you're a little wildcat in bed, aren't you? I bet you love it from behind."

*

Mycroft lets out a low whimper when Gregory bites his ear, enjoying the feeling of his lover’s hands on his arse. The entire situation is a bit heady for him, but there’s even something satisfying in being deprived of further attention to his cock- of being forced to only have what Greg offers him.

The interest of said cock has not reduced any less, of course. The position he’s in, with his pants about his thighs, means the only stimulation he might get is from the post, and he’s not so desperate as to try that. No, he’s been  _ naughty _ , according to their game, and he shall let Greg decide when he’s deserving again.

“I love it quite a lot of ways, officer.” Mycroft turns his head, his cheek brushing against his lover’s lips. “From behind, by a noble officer of the law… and quite wild indeed. Though judging by these,” he clinks the handcuffs against the post, “I think you mean to tame me.”

*

Greg hums, smiling quietly against Mycroft's cheek. 

"Not sure anyone would have the patience for that," he remarks, as he loosens Mycroft's trousers a little more. "Maybe not tame you, wildcat. Just have you to myself for a while."

He runs his hands to the sides of Mycroft's hips, gripping gently as he rocks against Mycroft's bare arse. The bulge of his cock is unconcealed by the fabric of his jeans.

"Nobody could blame me, after all."

He kneels behind Mycroft, lowering his trousers the rest of the way, then leans forward to deliver a little nip to Mycroft's arse - a playful catch of his teeth right on the curve. As he kisses the mark, soothing it with his tongue, he reaches down to help Mycroft lift one foot and then the other free from his trousers and underwear. The socks come off, too. 

Greg's hands, as they strip Mycroft's socks away, are warm. They lower his feet with gentle care back to the ground.

*

Mycroft’s breath stalls as teeth find his arse.  _ Good lord. _ Those gentle hands freeing him of his clothes are deceptively erotic in the care that’s shown to his clothes and his body. It emphasizes that he’s in Gregory’s power here. 

_ Wildcat. Hah. _

It’s not a name he would have chosen for himself- it certainly doesn’t fit the aloof, chilly personality he wears for work- but perhaps with Gregory it works. With Greg he does not have to be tame. 

He sinks into the sensations, the heat of hands and breath on his skin. With this, he is obedient, following every directing touch without a struggle. He hums low with pleasure as those hands caress his ankles up to his knees and down again.

“So tender, officer. I believe I might let you tame me after all. For a little while.”

*

Greg pushes the shed clothing aside, scooting forward on his knees to locate himself between Mycroft's legs. He takes a moment to ensure they're not spread too wide to be comfortable - he wants Mycroft feeling open in this moment, not unsteady - then dots a line of gentle kisses along the crease between Mycroft's arse cheek and his thigh. 

"I believe I'll have to reward that," he says. His hands slide up the back of Mycroft's thighs, cup his cheeks and once again part them with a squeeze. 

He starts by stroking his tongue a while over the patch of skin just behind Mycroft's balls, wetting it in gentle stripes which lengthen a little each time. This position is perfect: he can get everywhere without effort, keep Mycroft nice and open just with his hands. 

He doesn't take long to start lapping at Mycroft's opening, teasing the soft flat of his tongue across the ring of muscle. It develops steadily into lazy swirls and circles. Massaging Mycroft's arse in his hands, Greg lets his tongue slowly form itself a point and alternate between swirling and then gently pressing inwards, coaxing his lover's body to let him just a fraction deeper each time. 

_ That's it, baby. Relax for me. Want you soft and wet and pleading when I fuck you. _

*

Only the first moan is bitten down. Mycroft leans his forehead against the post, clinging to it, letting Gregory tongue-fuck him into oblivion. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, deciding on something snarky his persona might say, but it all vanishes into pleasure.

_ Oh god yes. Reward me. I’ll be good for this. _

As his body relaxes he frees his lip as well, letting out his moans as they come- and there are many. Greg is  _ skilled _ at this, and he’s been an excellent study of Mycroft’s body and the many ways to tune it like a bowstring under his hands. 

Each press inwards reminds him that his cock is aching for further stimulation- though at this point if he received that pleasure he might end up spending himself just like this, and he is rather certain Greg has designs on fucking him before that happens.

“Offi- officer-  _ fuck-  _ oh, that feels lovely-”

*

_ God, I should do this to you more often... _

Mycroft's sounds alone are nearly killing Greg. He wishes he'd unzipped his jeans before he started, just to relieve some of the pressure on his desperate erection - but he can't bear to let go of Mycroft's hips. 

He doesn't want to stop for even a moment. 

He keeps his movements slow and varied, not wanting to edge his lover too far too soon. Mycroft is doing beautifully for him, and this isn't about coming just yet. It's about pleasure. 

As the minutes ease by, Greg finds he can nuzzle further and further inside Mycroft's body with his tongue. His lazy licking becomes a series of thrusts and squirms and swirls. He steadies his grip gently on the sides of Mycroft's hips, encouraging him to rock back against Greg's wet, hungry mouth. 

*

“Oh, fff-”

Mycroft could live in this sensation. 

The feeling of Greg’s hands on his hips, strong and steady, is decadent. Mycroft sinks into the motion he’s guided toward, first gently shifting into a slow rock, enjoying the variance in pattern he is offered.

By the time his slow pace increases into something more akin to fucking himself on Greg’s tongue Mycroft feels a bit like he’s floating. He leans back from the post, the handcuffs digging gently into his wrists, but he hardly notices. 

He pants and moans happily, enthusiastically even. Though he likely cannot come from this alone, he’s hovering in the precursor to an orgasm without needing to think of a thing except the shapes Greg’s tongue is making on his skin, the soft thrust of it inside him.

_ Love you, I love you, good god I love you- _

Words are failing him, and what he does get out is hardly coherent.

“Nnnn- Offi… Grr….”

*

_ There you go, darlin'... that's it... _

It's good to feel Mycroft lean back - good to feel him relaxing into this, drifting, taking the pleasure he's being given. Greg finds himself relaxing too. It's all just patterns. He keeps on stroking and playing, mixing thrusts and flicks and then long teasing stripes, until Mycroft's eager sounds are becoming too much to resist. Mycroft's body feels soft and open; Greg's cock aches to discover for itself.

He hums as he slows his licking, easing down to a few last gentle swipes. He shifts on his knees, then slowly rises to his feet, dotting little kisses idly up the length of Mycroft's spine. 

At the back of Mycroft's neck he delivers a fond and lingering bite. He growls very softly as he does, sucking to coax the blood to the surface.

_ Mine... my sweetheart... _

He then presses close to Mycroft's arse to undo his jeans. He wants his lover to feel every slow motion - the twist of the button, the lazy lowering of his zip.  _ Feel how hard I am, darlin'. All for you. This is what pleasuring you does to me.  _ At last he eases his cock free from his boxers and slides it between Mycroft's arse cheeks, rubbing and teasing in the slow rhythm of sex.

As he rocks, his teeth ghost against the crook of Mycroft's neck - offering another bite. 

_ Beg, baby... beg, and I'll be nice... _

*

Mycroft makes a whining noise that would embarrass him if he were more cognizant, the sudden lack of Greg’s tongue leaving him feeling empty and off-balance.

When soft kisses trail up his back he nearly forgets that he’s meant to be playing the obstinate criminal here. Every small sensation feels enhanced, even the rub of fabric against him rough and stimulating. His neck tilts, offering himself to Greg however his lover would like to have him.

_ Yours. All yours. _

The cock slipping just outside of where he wants it, where he  _ needs _ it, is nearly too much to bear.

“Greg,” he breathes, nearly in a whisper. His mind is unfocused, slipping between the game and reality in a comfortable sort of glow. “Mmm- officer- please- I need you- make me yours-”

*

"Mm hmm?" Greg nuzzles into Mycroft's neck, breathing his scent. "Make you mine? Have you?"

He gives Mycroft another gentle bite, another minute of teasing, then steps away briefly to the bedside. He returns with lube - they're not rushing this, not doing it raw. Spits dries too fast. He uncaps the tube, takes his cock in his hand and slicks himself quickly, then guides himself to the softened gape of his lover's body.

"Behaving so well for me," he murmurs, and even the gentle initial press threatens to short-circuit his brain.  _ Mine. All fucking mine.  _ He closes his eyes, steadies himself and pushes on, shivering as he sinks deeper. "Mhmm. Fuck me up, you're tight."

With his free hand, he reaches around to stroke Mycroft's lower stomach. His fingertips skate gently in slow waves, just beneath his lover's navel.

"That's it, wildcat... take for me."

*

Mycroft’s eyes flutter as he’s filled, gasping as it intensifies. He leans into Greg’s chest, wanting as much contact as he can possibly stand until he can feel Greg’s hips against his arse. The brushing fingertips on his belly feel like they’re lighting his nerves up, so close to his own cock yet not quite there.

“Good for you,” he pants. “Tight for you.”

He rests the back of his head into the curve of Greg’s shoulder, his back arching even with his wrists still about the post. His hands tense and untense instinctually with nowhere to cling to but the wood. The urge to rut, to move and be fucked, is seeping through his bones, but Mycroft needs Greg to decide when.

Giving that decision over is its own kind of aphrodisiac. 

Still, he can ask. 

He can beg.

“Want you- please- please fuck me-”

*

"I know, lovely. I know you need me. Nearly there."

Greg lets his fingers trail lower, brushing just lightly along Mycroft's erection - teasing, feather-soft strokes with no rhythm to them. At the same time he tilts his head to kiss gently at Mycroft's beautiful neck. 

"You'll have everything you need," he whispers, fond. "Don't you worry."

He's still kissing Mycroft's neck when he finally begins to move. His first thrusts are gentle and shallow, barely stirring inside Mycroft's body to give them both time to adjust. This moment always feels intense; the physical sensation is enough to pull a tight moan from Greg's throat. His breath catches a little as he deepens his motions, enjoying the sheer physicality of sheathing himself in Mycroft's tight, oiled heat.

"Jesus," he breathes, wrapping his hand around Mycroft's cock. He squeezes gently at the base. "Mmhm... fuck, you feel good..."

*

Whimpering, Mycroft cants his hips in a shallow roll in time with his lover’s pace- it’s all he can manage in this position, though it doesn’t allow him to truly fuck into Greg’s hand either.

He clings to the post, his fingers digging into it, aching and burning but wanting so much  _ more.  _

_ Anything. Anything you wish to grant me. _

Several low, pleading noises escape him in a wordless desire for a faster pace, a deeper fucking- but Greg seems determined to slow fuck him.

At this rate Mycroft is going to be left a begging wreck by the end, and he’s fairly certain he has no objections to that.

“Pl- please- please-”

*

Greg's free arm wraps gently around Mycroft's chest, holding his lover close against his body with his hand pressed over Mycroft's heart. The soft rasp of fabric between them doesn't feel like a barrier; it's just another sensation all woven into the whole, a stroke of texture to accompany this almost lazy fucking.

_ Meant to pound you. Slam you. Discipline you. _

Greg rubs his nose tenderly against the exposed arc of Mycroft's throat.

_ Love you a little longer first. _

"All mine," he whispers, his voice soft, and keeps up the steady and smooth rolling of his hips. "My gorgeous slattern." Though the connection of their bodies deepens, it doesn't speed. 

Greg bites his lip as he shifts a little, easing one foot between Mycroft's spread legs. He's still in his walking boots. It means he's especially gentle as he presses the outside of his foot against Mycroft's instep, nudging, encouraging Mycroft to spread his legs a little wider. The other boot gently eases into position to do the same. He eases Mycroft's legs to part until he's pinned open and pressed up against the pole; he keeps his hold tight and secure around Mycroft's chest. 

"I've got you," he whispers, fucking his lover deeply now, a long and thick slide over and over and over. No speed is given yet. Greg's heart pounds in the back of his mouth; he's never had Mycroft so vulnerable in his care before. It's doing things for him he never even knew he wanted to experience. "D'you know how good you feel around my cock, sweetheart? All soft and slick and open for me... you belong to me, darlin'. I'll look after you. Always."

*

Mycroft’s mind sparks. Spread like this, he can’t rock back- but that’s alright, because Greg is fucking him slow and firm and deep.  _ Taking care of me.  _ His toes curl.

Everything around him, his normally keen awareness of the world, has narrowed to Greg alone. There is Greg’s touch and Greg’s breath and Greg’s heat. Nothing else matters.

It’s also saving him from pulling further at the cuffs, as pinned more firmly like this he’s less liable to press the metal against the wood and bruise himself. Perhaps he has already, a little, but if so it doesn’t bother him. He can’t feel that at all, not with Greg behind him and inside him, holding him close.

“Yours,” Mycroft keens as Greg fills him again and again.

“Your slattern- your wildcat- just yours- always yours-” 

“I love you-”

He drifts into incoherency again, almost babbling with every groan that accompanies the slick slide inside him, but the bits that make sense are enough to grasp the theme: Greg and love. Always that.

*

Whether this slow and steady stage goes on for minutes or hours, Greg doesn't know. Time slides quietly away through his hands. It's heaven just to feel; all his focus gathers to Mycroft, to his lover's body held against his own and the sounds that Mycroft's making. He's barely stimulating Mycroft's cock with his hand anymore - just holding, squeezing gently now and then. 

As he grows aware of the pressure finally gathering in his balls, he finds himself torn between longing and regret. He doesn't want this to end. Having Mycroft to himself like this, all of Mycroft, feels so deliciously selfish - and so good. 

His breath edges into panting against his will; he groans and starts to thrust with some urgency, indulging in the snug squeeze of Mycroft's body, pushing into it over and over. As he nuzzles Mycroft's neck, he tightens his grip and concentrates on fucking Mycroft through his own fist, working his hand in rhythm to help.

The thought of feeling Mycroft climax like this - pinned, cuffed and spread open, coming for him helplessly, coming and coming and coming...

Greg moans, quickening his thrusts.

"I love you..." he whispers, driving harder now. Palpable shudders of pleasure course through his body on every push. "Fuck - fuck,  _ fuck..." _

*

For an age there is only the drag inside him, slow and aching but so, so pleasurable. Mycroft loses himself in it entirely, the possibility of his own orgasm teetering on the edge, held taut by the pressure of his lover’s hand.

When things shift, finally, and that fist around his cock unclenches enough to allow him to shift through it, Mycroft feels as though he may immediately perish. Everything in him has been so tightly controlled by his lover- his pleasure, his orgasm, everything is in Greg’s hands and being given encouragement now toward his climax is almost too much to bear.

He can’t speak any longer, the words won’t come, but he moans when Greg increases in pace, the idea of being used solely for Greg’s pleasure consuming him.

If he had words left, he would ask permission, he would beg, but instead as his orgasm mounts he can only let out a few breathless noises, his entire body tightening. The handcuffs clink against the wood, hardly audible next to the sounds of their sex.

The first spurt hits the post squarely as Mycroft gasps and begins to shudder in Greg’s arms.

*

Greg's entire body aches as he feels Mycroft start to come. He tightens his arm around Mycroft's chest; he gasps against his lover's neck.

"Oh god, darlin', that's it - that's it, beautiful - come for me - come all over for me..." 

He doesn't want to hurt. He doesn't want to drive the sensations from pleasure into too intense. It's impossible to stop though, especially now, feeling his lover surrendering and shuddering in his arms. Mycroft in rapture at his hands is the singlest hottest thing on this planet, and he's already so close. 

Greg draws a breath and bites down into his lower lip, chasing, thrusting quick and clean. It's only seconds before the hot ripples of pleasure along his cock rupture. Climax roasts through his senses. His face tightens, his hiss of enjoyment dropping into a desperate moan; he pushes deep into Mycroft's body to come.

_ Mine - mine, mine, all mine -  _

*

Greg’s climax feels emotionally like Mycroft is himself coming again, their hormones and energy somehow blending together as heat erupts within him.

_ Have me, claim me- _

_ All yours, love. Entirely yours. _

When his awareness of anything other than their union returns, it is slow to start, like a cold engine in the dead of winter. Mycroft’s wrists are distantly sore, and he feels sleepy with contentment. Though he should really bathe, or at least tidy up, all he’d like to do is lie down and stay in the warm safety of Greg’s arms.

He hums contentedly, attempting to nuzzle back further into Greg’s arms, his body in search of warmth and cuddles.

“Gre’gry?” Mycroft’s wrists pull gently, clinking the metal about them. Why does it feel so sad all of a sudden, that he cannot hold Greg like this? Why is he struggling to find the simple words to ask to be freed?

He makes a soft noise of discontent instead, hoping his lover understands.

*

The sound of Greg's name stirs through the ashes of his senses. He inhales, finding himself back inside his own skin, and the immediate rush of protective love is almost overwhelming. 

He kisses Mycroft's cheek, whispering, "M'here - m'right here, darlin'..." 

Gently he withdraws from Mycroft's body. It takes him all of two seconds to reach the key on the dresser; he opens the cuffs quickly, calmly, and slides them from Mycroft's wrists. They drop onto the duvet with a gentle clatter.

"Here, beautiful," he murmurs, turns Mycroft around with care and gathers him at once into his arms. "Right here... god, tell me that wasn't too much."

*

Mycroft shakes his head as he curls into Greg’s chest, tucking his face into his lover’s neck. It hadn’t been, but the effect of his own hormones on his system is… confusing. It’s not as though he had changed any of them by artificial means, but he can recognize that the effects are different.

_ Hmm. Is this what Gregory feels when he ‘drops’? _

That would make sense. His own needs seem to align with what he’d experienced with Gregory from the other side- closeness, warmth, and skin. A desire for a caring touch, which, now that he has it, makes him feel so full of love that he might cry.

_ It’s only biology. No need to get overly emotional about it. _

He swallows, focusing on getting his voice working again. 

“Not too much.” He steps forward to try and coil them together further, but his legs feel unsteady. “I believe it’s that ‘drop’ you’ve mentioned.”

“Might we lie down?”

*

"Of course, sweetheart... here, let's get the rest of these clothes off you..."

Greg kisses Mycroft's cheek as he helps to ease away Mycroft's open shirt, waistcoat and jacket. He's been through drop several times with Mycroft - it used to happen more often at the beginning of their relationship, usually without any pattern. When it comes, the answer for Greg is usually peace, time and his lover's bare skin.

He settles Mycroft into bed with care and undresses as quickly as he can, keeping his gaze on his partner. 

"We'll get you warm," he promises, kicks away his jeans and gets into bed too, shuffling under the covers. He draws Mycroft close against his chest. "There, darlin'... I've got you..." 

Tenderly his fingers stroke through Mycroft's hair, smoothing it back for Greg to kiss.

"Help if I talk to you, sweet?" he murmurs. "Or would you like quiet?"

*

“Talk to me,” Mycroft murmurs back.

This experience is… not immediately easily to categorize, which is somewhat troublesome. He finds that he is somewhat concerned that he has been too laid-back when Gregory has gone through it, that he in some way has failed as a partner. It doesn’t seem quite rational. So long as he has Greg here with him, talking to him, it seems better than it would be leaving his thoughts entirely in his own head.

Those spill out as well, his analytical side struggling to sort the matter into something more comprehensible.

“It’s a hormonal response. Isn’t it? I don’t think I’d realized how strong it is.”

He nuzzles into Greg’s chest, still feeling best when he can have his cheek over his lover’s heartbeat.

“Have you ever researched it?”

*

Greg gathers the sheets around Mycroft's neck gently, hiding him away as much as he can. He presses another little kiss to Mycroft's hair.

"Not researched it," he murmurs, his voice fond and soft. The vibration rumbles just beneath the surface of his chest. "Felt it, though. You're right, it  _ is _ strong. So far as I know, it's all the chemicals kicking you out the other side."

He strokes Mycroft's back slowly through the sheets as he talks, his eyes closing.  _ Just you and me, sweetheart. Wrapped up safe.  _

Their legs tangle beneath the sheets.

"You'll stabilise in a little while, darlin'... until then, I'm right here. M'gonna hold you safe and watch over you. We'll get some food into you when you're feeling more settled. Sugary tea, maybe. A snack."

He lays his lips to the top of Mycroft's head once more.

"Skin time, first."

*

Mycroft will research it. The thought contents him, as data and knowledge always does. It’s enough to relax him a bit, sinking into Greg’s warmth and his gentle touch.

_ My lover. Taking care of me. _

Simply resting for a bit and not moving, after some time just twining with Greg he begins to brush his fingertips over his lover’s skin, tracing the angles of his bones and the curve of his muscles. 

_ All of you. All of you that I love. _

Eventually he grows contented enough that he wonders if he’s fallen asleep. Time may be a tad wobbly without Mycroft knowing how much has passed, but that’s alright. He’s beginning to feel like himself again- or at least a bit thirsty, which is sensible considering the exertion.

“There was mention made of tea….”

*

"There was," Greg murmurs, smiling. He strokes his fingertips up Mycroft's side. "You alright for a minute if I go make some?"

He cups his lover's jaw gently in one hand, leans close and kisses his lips. 

"Stay here and rest," he says softly, stroking his nose against the side of Mycroft's. "Nice and warm in our nest, where you're safe. I'll go hunt something down and drag it back for you to eat. Then I'll run a bath for you, we'll get you clean and into cosy clothes, and if you want to spend the rest of the afternoon cuddled up in my arms, that's exactly what we'll do."

His smile curves, his eyes bright.

"I love you. I won't be long." 

*

Mycroft’s lip twitches into a grin. “Mm, my strong hunter. Catch me something black with a bit of milk and sugar, if you please.”

_ “Afternoon.” How is it still the afternoon? It feels as though it’s been three days, at least. _

By the time he can hear Greg’s footsteps on the stairs, Mycroft is already taking a preliminary glance at the internet on his phone, comfortably curled in the pillows with all the blankets pulled up. His first few searches had yielded useless information- pages on loss of sexual drive, STDs, and aging. 

But something has caught his eye that seems more accurate. An endorphin crash, that he can understand. It’s the context of the website he’s found the term on that is a bit… confusing.

“Gregory, do you know this sort of thing is mostly prevalent in BDSM relationships?”

*

Greg glances up as he places Mycroft's hot drink on the bedside.

"Well... I suppose I can see that." 

It's strange, he thinks, the immediate bubble of resistance:  _ we're not in a BDSM relationship. We don't even do BDSM, really, it's just... pretending a bit.  _ After his previous marriage, with all the abnormality and toxic behaviour it contained, he can understand why something in him wants to cling rather hard to a  _ normal  _ relationship.

He sits at Mycroft's side on the bed, looking a little warily at the phone. 

"I dunno if handcuffs and a bit of roleplay counts as... y'know,  _ full-on..." _ He gestures at the screen. "Right? I mean, they sell handcuffs at Ann Summers. We just look after each other sometimes. That's all. If it's helpful in dealing with the drop, darlin', I'm glad. But don't get freaked out."

*

“I… don’t believe I am.”

Mycroft’s brow furrows. His emotional state is still not entirely stabilized, though it has improved, and the idea that he has somehow disappointed Greg is deeply saddening. His free hand loops about Greg’s waist, and he tilts slowly into his lover’s chest, his cheek once more against Gregory’s heart.

_ Please don’t be angry with me. _

“It’s not- I would not classify us as such either, but it’s- the article suggests it’s more about intimacy. We are more vulnerable with people we truly trust, wholly and completely with- everything. Our trust might not be born of- I don’t know, those complex rope designs and hanging one another from the ceiling, but I think… I believe we do have that.”

Mycroft’s arm pulls tighter as he sets the phone down.

“Are you upset I looked into it? I will refrain if you don’t approve… I simply feel more settled when there is- data, and not only… feeling.”

*

Greg's heart thuds softly as he listens. His arms wrap around Mycroft, settling his lover against the bare warmth of his chest again, and he takes a moment to pull his feelings to the surface where he can see them - not let them sink.  _ It's safe to look,  _ their counsellor tells him every session.

He allows himself to look. 

The important things show their shape to him first.

"I'm not upset," he murmurs. It's promised with a tiny kiss. "Don't think that, love. Data's comforting. M'glad it's giving you a structure to place things on... I know you need that."

He rubs between Mycroft's shoulders as he thinks a little longer. There are already plenty of feelings around; if he's going to hand Mycroft some more to deal with, he wants what he gives to be accurate. 

"That... term covers a lot of things," he says at last. "Most of which really isn't for me. It all seems to get very specialist very quickly, y'know? A bit of a rabbit hole, maybe." 

That's not the real crux of it, though; he knows it. 

He inhales, pulls all the feelings up again and looks, unaware his grip has tightened a little. 

"Maybe I... I don't like the thought of a BDSM relationship as opposed to a real relationship. I don't really want pain and power involved in this. I lived with pain and power and it's not all that titillating when it's real. Plus I know BDSM has something of a community going on, and that's... y-yeah, that's not happening."

_ God, don't do that to me. Don't let me hear on the same day that I can marry you but I might have to share you now and then.  _

Greg cards his fingers through Mycroft's hair, covering the slight shake of his hand. It's unsettling to realise what they just did was BDSM. In his mind it was play; he's now nervously aware that a black door studded with spikes has been opened. 

"And I've got too much body hair for a PVC catsuit." The humour came out braver in his mind than it did from his mouth. "Think of the talc we'd go through, darlin'."

*

Mycroft turns his face further inward, his nose rubbing against Greg’s sternum. As Greg speaks, he presses a quiet kiss there, caressing the slope of the bone.  _ Not upset with me, then. More… the concept. _

It does strike him as a bit odd that Gregory is resistant to even the idea of it, particularly considering that he is the one more familiar with safewords and seems so easy about being told what to do. 

_ But that was without a label. Without being categorized as possibly taboo. _

For himself, nothing about it- at least for this skim of the surface he can glean from the web page- really bothers him. Perhaps it is his natural sexual openness, but he wouldn’t see any issues if Greg told him he was into collars and leashes or spanking, or even wished to try something more complicated. Early on might have been different, but now… he trusts Greg. If his lover- his future husband- needs reassurance that Mycroft will never lead him to waters he does not wish to drink from, however, he can offer that.

“As much as I consider you attractive in nearly anything, darling, I have to say I do think a catsuit may fall short.”

He kisses Greg’s pectoral, and then pulls back enough that he can see his lover’s face.

“Learning about something does not mean I wish to engage in it, lovely. It only means I would like to be informed. I would love you even if you asked me never to be assertive with you again, or if you preferred to put all the toys away.”

“I only want you. However you’ll have me.”

*

Greg's gaze softens, watching Mycroft with tentative warmth.

"I don't necessarily wanna lose the toys," he mumbles. "They're all fun so far. And we've got things we haven't tried yet, and I want to. And I kinda like the assertiveness too - whichever way it goes, I mean...  _ both _ are - erm..."

Nervous humour pulls his mouth into a smile, as he realises he's a little all over the place here. He lowers his gaze beneath his eyelashes.

"Okay, I... I guess I don't really know where my limits are. I don't know what counts as proper BDSM. I'm betting that people on the internet are more imaginative than me, though."

He looks up again, shy.

"One new thing at a time?" he suggests. The glimmer of anxious humour returns. "Nothing involving pegs or putting cigarettes out on me." The skip is just a little too long. "Or other people."

*

“Gregory, I don’t believe I would enjoy harming you even if you asked me to.” 

Mycroft reaches over, softly curling a finger under Greg’s chin and drawing him into a kiss. 

“And I do not wish to involve anyone else in our sex life. So. One new thing at a time it shall be.”

He takes a moment to bind his promise with caresses over Greg’s skin, all tender and loving, and another kiss.  _ Of course he wouldn’t want anyone else involved. Not after all the cheating. _ But that is fine with Mycroft. There is only one man for him. Only one man, for the rest of forever.

Although, actually, depending on how Gregory defines the inclusion of another….

“Speaking of- I had intended something as a surprise, but it seems more prudent now to discuss it…. we’ve both lamented that we do not have many pictures together, so I’ve invited a photographer I’m familiar with to come take a few nice ones- just us, perhaps outside. Looking terribly romantic, I am sure.”

His fingers trail down Greg’s neck to his shoulder, rubbing in gentle circles.

“She also has something of an expertise with… boudoir photography. I know we’ve both jested about having something with you, black and white and tasteful, to hang in the bedroom, but- if that would be too close to another person being, ah,  _ involved _ , we could just do the traditional set….”

*

Greg's eyes flicker shut as Mycroft kisses him. The reassurance feels like warmth gathered around him; it's much needed. He leans into Mycroft gently, letting his nerves start to soften at the edges as they kiss. 

_ He's not wanting anything specialist. Anything where we have to put away the love.  _

Part of Greg thinks he needs to google a few things; part of him thinks it would be the single fastest way to scare himself to death. He's probably better waiting to see what Mycroft has in mind, rather than blasting himself with the combined force of all the filth the internet has to offer.

The thought is still drifting vaguely around Greg's mind as Mycroft starts talking again, mentioning about a surprise - then a photographer, which makes Greg smile a little uncertainly, wondering how he missed the jump from BDSM to romantic lakeside photographs. 

When the word 'boudoir' is mentioned, the penny very visibly drops. 

Greg's eyebrows flash upwards. He searches his lover's face, a smile breaking through his concern like sun through cloud.

"Really?" he says. His gaze strays to Mycroft's lips, then back to his eyes. "Wow. That's -  _ yeah,  _ darlin'. If you're okay with that." His shy grin grows. They've joked about it for a while now; he'd had a feeling it was less and less of a joke each time it returned. "I don't wanna see you with someone else, Myc. That's all. Otherwise, I don't have a problem with... and they'd be pictures special for you, so..."

He puts his arms gently around Mycroft's waist, his eyes soft and hopeful.

"M'sorry I got spooked," he murmurs, meaning it. "I'm... better with specifics, maybe. Otherwise I fill gaps." 

*

“Mm, maybe I ought to take over the gap filling for a bit,” Mycroft says cheekily.

The conversation has made him feel much more secure. It’s as though he’s on solid ground again, even with the lingering feeling of emotional rawness. 

_ Well, that is the point of this trip, isn’t it? Relax, and grow with each other. Deepen with each other.  _ Sex, and the intricacies thereof, is just a part of that- an extension of their love.

He presses another kiss to Greg’s lips, smiling. “You have nothing to apologize for. This is new ground for both of us. I’d rather we walk it hand in hand and keep discussing than leap straight into some dark cavern unawares.”

_ This is as things should be. _ Them, sharing a bed together, reassuring each other in their love. He’s already thinking of what he might be able to slyly whisper into Gregory’s ear to generate that lovely shy, slightly blushing smile for the camera.  _ My love. My gorgeous man. _

“As it happens, I quite enjoyed our ‘new element’ today. I am fairly certain I shall likely violate local arse-goosing statutes in the future as well, should Officer Greg be inclined to make any additional appearances.”

*

Greg grins as he bites his lip, unable to suppress the heat rising in his face. "I liked it, too. It's... nice to look after you. Nice to spend time with different sides of you."

He lifts a hand, running the back of his fingers gently along Mycroft's jaw.

"I liked last night as well. I've liked everything we've ever done together. You're not just my heart, Myc, you're... you're  _ everything. _ You make me feel gorgeous. You make me feel happy."

He reaches for the bedside, picking up Mycroft's untouched mug of tea.

"Here," he murmurs, placing it in his lover's hands. "For your hormones, darlin'."

*

“Thank you, my love.”

Mycroft sips slowly, letting himself sink slowly once more against Greg’s chest. It’s one of his favourite places, he’s decided, nested right there in his lover’s warmth. 

“I love you, Gregory. You bring me immense joy. It is my greatest treasure to know I make you happy as well.”

It’s a comfortable way to spend an afternoon, lingering there with their tea, expecting a nice warm shower after and a good meal. Perhaps tonight there won’t be sex- there’s plenty of games in the house, chess and cards and puzzles. 

Anything will be perfect so long as they are with each other.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note before you read! If you enjoyed Moth's stories [Diogenes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12899646) & [For Services Rendered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13025097) and you want to keep them in their current form, please go download them now. <3 They'll be leaving AO3 in early December (for happy reasons).

Greg's meant to be laying three outfits out on the bed, ready for the photographer to get here in an hour. 

He's laid out various pieces of three outfits, tentatively paired one of the shirts with some jeans, then gotten sidetracked into scrolling through the photographer's website on his phone. She has a gallery of previous couples; she suggested they both take a look through it for inspiration.

He's smiling as he scrolls, no longer even aware that he's sitting here naked. His hair's still damp from washing it, the hair dryer plugged in and ignored beside the mirror, and he knows Mycroft will be finishing in the shower at any moment.

It's fascinating, though - how people have chosen to portray their relationship. 

As he skims through the gallery, he's aware he's looking at years of love condensed into split second moments. He loves the glittering glances she's caught, the laughter, the casual affectionate touches shared between posed shots. Her biography promises she works with couples individually to capture the real essence of their bond.

She'll have a lot to capture when it comes to him and Mycroft.

It's hard to put into words what forms the essence of their bond.  _ We met in a café,  _ Greg thinks, smiling to himself as he loads the next page of images.  _ I couldn't stop staring at him, then a cat made us sit together. I took him home and he touched me like I could have anything I wanted in the world. He's my life. He's everything. _

As the images appear, they've changed from portraits of happy couples into solo shots - most are in black-and-white. Greg's pulse gives a little hop as he realises he's now looking at her boudoir stuff.

_ She's good, _ he thinks, raising an eyebrow as he scrolls. 

He's not surprised that the featured models are pretty exclusively women. He supposes it's not something people often arrange for a male partner. There's a lot of lacey lingerie on show, coyly-lowered gazes and open silk dressing gowns, softly-fluffed hair, dark lipstick and bitten lips. A few shots do feature couples - men sitting back in chairs as their lover unbuttons their shirt, gazing down at them; men pulled close by their ties; men in silhouette, proud shadows framing the proud women in their arms.

Greg grins, his stomach squirming with anticipation already. He hopes this photographer knows what she's letting herself in for. He happened to catch a glance at her prices - and to have her here for most of the day, his lover will be paying a tidy sum indeed.

Greg very much intends for Mycroft to get his money's worth.

*

Steam rolls out of the shower as Mycroft turns off the water. Hot water always relaxes him, lets his mind drift for a while- that’s why he had the tub installed in his home, after all, and before Gregory it was one of his only respites from work. 

He towels off slowly, touching up his shaving (though honestly his beard is never swift to come in) and carefully arranging his hair so his troublesome curl will stay where it’s placed. When he exits and sees the sly grin Greg is making, however, he almost wishes he had time to let it be ruffled up again.

“Hellion.” Mycroft presses a soft kiss to his lover’s temple. “Ah, I see what has you distracted. Her work is quite good, isn’t it?” 

Abbey Rogers does not know Mycroft in person, though her services have been employed discreetly by others in his world. Photos to feign relationships, photos to feign affairs, even photos to feign someone’s status as a high-end escort- sometimes one needs a stronger talent than a junior technician with a smartphone, and the woman is discretion incarnate. She’s never asked about any odd requests made of her, and the government has been more than happy to pay her well for her time. 

“But I fear we must do the civilized portion first, love, lest we scandalize the neighbors by taking each other while being photographed in the garden.”

*

Greg laughs, pretty sure Mycroft's family would be run out of the area if such a thing occurred. There's a limit to what you can get up to, even on your own property.

"I've been looking at the 'civilised' pictures, too. Not just the naughty ones. She's got a real way of catching people, hasn't she? I'm kinda wondering what she'll capture of us."

He swipes away the window with his thumb, puts his phone aside and stretches, letting the bones in his shoulders click.

"Do we need to match colours or anything...? You've always got a better eye for these things than me." He glances down at his selection of t-shirts, jumpers and jeans. "Have I gone too casual?"

*

“She does, yes. There’s a sense of… genuineness in her work that I’m rather fond of.” 

Mycroft’s eyes trace the lines of Greg’s shoulders as they shift. “Hm. Perhaps… a button down and jeans? Or- no, you’d be too cold. We don’t need to match- we should both look like ourselves, but we can coordinate it a bit.”

He looks over Greg’s options, then opens the closet to peer at his own selections. “If you go with your blue jumper, I can wear my grey suit and blue tie… that might work out well.”

It’s odd that he feels slightly nervous about this- then again, it is a formal documentation of their love, and in many ways a confirmation of their bond.  _ I am going to marry you. Here is the evidence. _

Somehow the idea of the boudoir photos feels much less stressful. Then again, he’s never been very anxious about matters of sexuality.

“Honestly, love, you do look good in everything. Wear what you like and I am sure I shall be able to find a tie to coordinate with you.”

*

Greg stands up from the bed, taking a better look at the clothes he's picked out. In a way, it's probably better not to overthink this. He wants to look like he does everyday in the photographs, not like he's trying his hardest to be properly presented for once.

He idles over to the open closet, sneaks his arms around Mycroft's waist from behind and nuzzles into his shoulder, enjoying their slight height difference. 

"Mad question," he says. "If we're doing boudoir shots, I don't have any fancy lingerie. Frilly things I can dig out of the cupboard. So... I'll just be naked, right? Or is she going to pose me carefully behind fruit bowls?"

*

Mycroft’s lip twitches up into a smile. “Mmm, I suppose you are rather free of lacy underthings.”

He turns his cheek, skin brushing against Greg’s forehead. 

“Well, I had considered perhaps a few with an undone shirt, open to show off your delectable chest… maybe something with your jeans undone and parted.” 

That’s the set that he could get away with framing and putting in the foyer if he likes. And he might well like. 

“The photos on her website do not include her most risque work, in deference to her clients’ privacy, of course, but she does take nude pictures as well. Would you be comfortable with that? We could keep it more suggestive than overt, if you prefer.”

*

Greg grins a little against Mycroft's shoulder, lifting his head to kiss his lover's jaw.

"I'm up for it. If we keep them in the bedroom, maybe... just for us, y'know? You've seen it all before, love. And I'm pretty sure she'll have photographed more astonishing sights than my cock."

He noses gently between the collar of Mycroft's dressing gown and his neck, taking a sly nibble of his skin.

"Will I have any company in the boudoir shoots? Or are you going to be in a directing role only?"

*

Mycroft lets out a pleased humming noise, tilting his neck a bit to let Greg tease him. “I don’t know, darling. I find your cock particularly astonishing.”

He lays his hands over Greg’s, working their fingers together. Being  _ in _ the shots… he hadn’t really considered that. But it does have some appeal…. It would be a different sort of documentation of their love, but no less honest.

“I imagine I will start with some… suggestions. Though if the mood strikes, I don’t see why I couldn’t join you. Let you pull on my tie, perhaps? One of those where my suit is still on and you are… hmm.”

Mycroft smiles as he feels the start of arousal seep through him.

“You ought to get some clothes on, hellion, before I get too distracted by your wiles.”

*

Something about Mycroft's neck is just endlessly satisfying to kiss. Greg finds himself drifting a little in the feeling of it, stroking his lips across his lover's pulse point and letting the texture of his stubble edge each gentle brush.

The direction towards clothes is met with a reluctant little hum, but compliance. Greg steals one last kiss and steps away, idling over to the bed to consider his options once more.

"I like the sound of suggestions," he says, as he picks up his blue jumper and rubs its fabric gently. "I want them to turn out special... something for us to look back on."

He glances over his shoulder, his eyes glittering.

"Have to get some small copies in frames, to put out whenever a brother drops by. See which of them notices first."

*

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “Are you planning to pay that therapy bill for them?” He grins back quite fondly.

When Abbey arrives, he jogs down to greet her and show her the spots on the grounds he’s thought might work best. She seems pleased with her options, all of which have good natural light and pleasant views. 

“This is quite a gorgeous place, Mycroft.” The sun catches the strands of white and gray in her otherwise fairly dark hair, giving her an oddly ageless quality, as though she might be thirty or sixty.  _ Elven,  _ his brain supplies cheekily. “And we’ll be doing the boudoir shoot inside?”

He nods as he leads her back inside to where she’s set up her bags in the living room. “Yes- Greg will be the star of the show for that. He is, in my estimation, the far handsomer one, but he is also, ah. Less shy.”

“You know everyone who’s really in love says their partner is the handsome one.” Her smile glitters. “Were you just thinking of the bedroom? Some people like a few shots in an office, a living room- I did one in a kitchen, for a woman in just an apron. Don’t even think that one was for a partner, she was making a sexy cookbook to sell online. She  _ really _ liked baking.”

*

"I did bring my apron," comes a voice from the doorway, as Greg arrives in the living room, finally dressed with his hair dry and slightly tousled from the dryer. He's gone for his smartest look to begin with, an outfit he imagines he'll one day meet Mycroft's mother in: well-fitting jeans, his soft blue-grey jumper and a white shirt beneath it. 

He gives Abbey a smile and approaches with an offered handshake, trying to keep out of his mind that this woman will have seen his cock by the end of the day.

"Abbey, right? Greg - nice to meet you."

*

“Hullo, Greg,” Abbey’s smile is warm and pleasant as she takes Greg’s hand, though Mycroft can see the artistic side of her already processing the colors they’re wearing and the best ways to highlight them. “Well- why don’t we do a couple test shots in front of the fireplace here, and then we can move outside. Is that alright with you?”

The first round is easy- she only makes a few small suggestions to post them, watching how their natural instincts carry them. When they’re outside, however, she offers more guidance. 

“Sit there, Mycroft- yes, and Greg, lean down a bit- that’s perfect. Now I want you two to look at each other and think about the first time you said ‘I love you.’”

Mycroft’s lip quirks upward fondly as he gazes at his lover.  _ You said it first, beautiful.  _ He remembers how much his heart expanded, hearing it. How happy it made him.

_ I love you too, Gregory. _

*

Greg grins at once, biting into his lip as he watches Mycroft smile.  _ The number of times I nearly blurted it out while we were shagging. Christ, imagine if I had... _

He's only half-aware of Abbey sneaking shots as they gaze at each other. It's relaxing to have something to think about, other than the hovering camera. 

"You know I spent weeks wanting to tell you... right?" Abbey seems to pause in her shots, adjusting one of the settings on her camera; Greg takes the chance to gently stroke Mycroft's arm. There's a discreet click. "Honestly don't know how we went that long."

*

“Nor do I,” Mycroft murmurs back. It still makes him glow, thinking of it. When he was first sure Greg was entirely his. 

There’s a few more clicks, then Abbey’s voice softly cuts in. “Greg, you stay right there- Mycroft, why don’t you stand next to him now- that’s right, yes, put your arm around him and give him a nice peck on the cheek. I can tell you’ve been wanting to.”

He has, actually- which makes him wonder if Abbey has her connection with the security services through perhaps some previous non-photographic work- though it makes sense that a truly skilled photographer should be able to read people as well. 

His lips brush Greg’s cheek gently, his hand finding Greg’s and laying over it.  _ Mine. My future.  _

The photos will work well for an engagement notice too, he realizes as he pulls back, his eyes glittering at Greg. 

_ My forever. _

“Greg, you can kiss him too, love. Whatever you would normally do. You two look gorgeous, by the way.”

*

Greg's almost forgotten the more intimate shots they'll be taking later, wrapped up for now in the simple happiness of standing outside together being in love.  _ Proud to be with me,  _ he thinks, leaning close and placing a small kiss on the tip of Mycroft's nose with a smile. He doesn't even notice if Abbey catches it or not.  _ Yours. Your Greg. _

It makes him think about other photos there'll be someday. He probably won't be in jeans, then - and there might be a few more people in the background. 

As he gazes at Mycroft, watching his eyes glitter, Greg's heart seems to buck in his chest.

_ We both know it... don't we?  _ Forgetting the camera, he loops his arms around his lover's waist gently and coaxes him close.  _ You're thinking about it right now, same as me. We both know what we said yesterday.  _

_ This might as well be an engagement shoot. _

He presses their noses together, nudging. His eyes close.

_ I want to marry you, darlin'. I want it to be soon.  _

*

Mycroft nudges back.  _ Soon, my love. _ More pictures together. Some with Marmalade. With Sally and Anthea. Sherlock and Andy.  _ Ours. Our life. _

_ My husband. _

They drift through the other photos in the yard in a happy bubble, hardly taking their eyes off each other. It’s no chore, gazing lovingly and occasionally murmuring to each other. Mycroft barely notices when Abbey stops guiding them at all.

They change outfits twice, Mycroft electing to employ his most casual look for the last- a jumper and trousers, which work well as they lean against a tree, alternating soft smiles and gentle kissing. He smirks a bit, remembering being pressed against a different tree the day before, his cheeks tinting just a little pink.

_ Entirely yours, aren’t I. Yours forever. Yours in every way. _

*

The glitter in Greg's eyes ignites. 

He raises an eyebrow the tiniest fraction, letting his recollection of the situation be known, and idly leans up to Mycroft's ear. 

"Love when you blush a bit," he murmurs, smiling. His stubble strokes Mycroft's cheek as his lips move. "Reminds me of other times you go pink... you're gorgeous, you know that? I love you."

Out of range of detection, he slyly lowers one hand.

"This was an amazing idea, darlin'. Thank you for arranging it... m'looking forward to looking back at this moment." 

The words are heartfelt. 

They're also a good distraction. Mycroft's only warning is the split-second pre-eruption of Greg's grin before he's given a thorough and rather expert goosing, carefully targeted for maximum yelp.

*

Mycroft’s cry is high-pitched and remarkably undignified, punctuated by a jump in the air, a swift “ _ Gregory!” _ and the quiet sound of Abbey’s laughter as he grasps Greg’s shirt and kisses him soundly, quiet clicks sounding the entire time.

“You absolute terror,” he whispers to Gregory in an amused voice. “I love you.”

“Alright, lovebirds.” Abbey is still chuckling as she lowers the camera. “I think I’ve got plenty of material to work with for this set. Shall we go in and switch our focus?”

Mycroft engages in a brief battle with Greg’s hand as he tries and fails to goose his lover in retaliation as they walk inside, leaving them holding hands instead. “Hellion,” he murmurs, still smiling. 

“You can get out of that jumper and your shoes and socks, but leave everything else on for now.” Mycroft’s eyes glitter, darkened by the feistiness Greg has instilled in him. “I have some ideas to start with.” 

*

_ God. I bet you do.  _ Greg would be aroused, if it weren't for the slight edge of nerves that have arisen now they're actually about to do this. 

He's glad he got the bedroom tidy before Abbey arrived. As she moves around, shifting the curtains to study the light and rearranging a few pieces of furniture, clearly compiling ideas of her own, Greg sits down on the side of the bed to remove his shoes. He nudges them underneath, strips off his jumper and hands it to Mycroft to go in the wardrobe, then removes his socks as well.

Barefoot, now perfectly balanced between amusement and anxiety, he slides his phone from his pocket and loads up a playlist. It's an unintrusive, looping collection of songs which Mycroft will probably recognise - this set is one Greg has put on before to make love with. 

Right now, he's not so much focused on creating a  _ sexy _ atmosphere as a  _ relaxing _ one. Doing this in total silence doesn't appeal. 

Music now playing, he hands the phone over to Mycroft with a quietly nervous smile. His eyes sparkle.

"Forgot to fetch the fruit bowl up," he teases. 

*

“Who says I’m hiding you behind a fruit bowl?” Mycroft smiles back, his eyes just a bit darker than they were, as they usually get when he lets his more assertive side out. The songs make him smile as well- there are many happy- and occasionally very joyously filthy- memories associated with this particular mix. 

Abbey takes a few test shots of the light, glancing at her camera for a bit and adjusting some settings as Mycroft hangs up the jumper and sets Greg’s phone on the dresser. “Okay- so, Greg, you do whatever you need to stay comfortable, yeah? Don’t think you have to do anything you don’t like. I know Mycroft has some thoughts about poses and we’ve discussed those a bit, so I’ll keep my nose mostly out of things once we get going. You can pretend I’m not even here if you like.”

She glances through her test shots one more time and gives them a nod. “Right, why don’t we start with- Greg, there’s that lovely dressing mirror, why don’t you stand by that- just there, yeah. Mycroft, if you keep by the window you’ll be able to see each other in the reflection but you won’t be in the shot.”

Mycroft bites into his grin as he perches on the ledge, eyes on Greg’s in the mirror. There’s a sort of low-level erotic current to the whole scenario, even if Abbey seems entirely immune to it. 

“That’s perfect. Now- just unbutton your shirt. You don’t need to be sexy about it, we’ll start simple. This is just you getting home after work, yeah? Nice and comfy.”

*

"Right."  _ Nice and easy,  _ Greg thinks, taking a glance at himself in the glass. Having Mycroft there helps. He gives his lover a shy, half-amused smile, then looks down as he slides open the first button.

He takes his time to work through them all. He can vaguely hear Abbey catching shots, feel Mycroft watching his reflection, and it's impossible not to feel a little exposed - somehow safely so. It translates to a slightly shy edge which keeps his gaze low, his smile only ever a suggestion at the corner of his mouth. 

When he's done with the buttons, he quietly adjusts his collar; he runs a hand to the side of his neck. 

His eyes reach for Mycroft's in the glass.

"Feel like I should have an open bow tie," he remarks, grinning warily, "and a half-drunk Scotch on the rocks."

It occurs to him he should maybe have knocked back some liquor in preparation for this - but then, all the shots by the lake might have gotten rather messy. Picture after picture of Greg greedily manhandling Mycroft, laughing at the smallest thing and scruffing his hair onto end at every opportunity.

*

_ I love you,  _ Mycroft mouths in the mirror.  _ Handsome man. _

“That would look handsome too. But as I have said before, you look quite ravishing in everything.” Mycroft grins cheekily. “Or nothing.”

Abbey takes a few more, quietly gliding by the bed, her footsteps just as soft as the camera’s click until she ends up next to Mycroft. “Now- the bit with the chair? I think you’re right, those red tones will look great with his hair.”

“Certainly.” 

He helps her drag the old leather armchair that once served as his younger self’s reading nook into a better lit position, smiling as he coyly beckons Gregory over, kissing him gently on the cheek. If there’s a few soft clicks of the shutter, he ignores them.

“Would you like a scotch, beautiful? I’ll get you one, if you want.” 

His voice is soft when he leans in to Greg’s ear. “Are you still alright with this, darling?”

*

Greg leans into Mycroft's body for a moment, enjoying the reassurance of his lover's closeness. He presses a small kiss to Mycroft's jaw. 

"I'm fine, love," he murmurs. His eyes shine. "Promise." 

It's curiously settling to realise Mycroft seems to have a plan for this part - knows what shots he wants, what story is being told. Greg's always been very comfortable with Mycroft's natural authority. There's been a deep and reassuring trust between them ever since they met, and Greg finds himself reaching for that trust now. Following his lover's guidance will always feel natural - and far easier than trying to be sexy.

He glances at the old leather chair with quiet interest, then at Mycroft again, his gaze softening.

"How d'you want me?" he asks with a little smile.  _ Want to please you,  _ he thinks, and it shows in his face.  _ Want to do your bidding. _

*

Mycroft’s lip curves up and he has to bite down the smug little smirk that erupts across his face.  _ Good god, you are perfect.  _ If there wasn’t someone else in the room Mycroft would have no issues taking the opportunity to do any number of things to Gregory in that chair- but there is time enough for that later.

_ You always please me, _ he says with his fingers, softly stroking down Gregory’s cheek.

“Why don’t you button back up, darling- I’ll get you a tie. And a jacket.” 

It only takes Mycroft a brief minute to locate the clothes he’d like- they’re the most business-like of the items he’s brought short of Greg’s best suit.

“Here, beautiful.” He leans close so he can whisper as he ties Greg’s tie for him.

“I was thinking for this a bit of… I believe the term is ‘suit porn.’ Inspired by a certain look you give me some days when you’ve just gotten off work, but you still have all your clothes on.” Mycroft licks his lower lip as he finishes tying the tie, kissing his lover on the cheek.

“A bit of James Bond, if you will.” And if he is thinking specifically of the James Bond he’d had in his bed the other night, Mycroft manages to keep it from his face. “If he were trying to eye-fuck his way into a free drink.” 

*

Greg watches softly as Mycroft knots his tie for him - he's not bad at doing the things himself, far from, but Mycroft can make a tie-knot look like it belongs in an art gallery. 

Mentions of suit porn and James Bond raise a smile on his face; he bites the corner of his lip a little, eyes flashing into Mycroft's. He's well aware of the effect his workwear sometimes has upon Mycroft, especially if it's one of his darker, smarter suits. Some very pleasant evenings have begun that way, to say nothing of their game of pretend a couple of nights ago.

He returns the gentle kiss, quietly aware of Abbey and her camera. 

Keeping this shadow of intimacy as just a shadow is rather tantalising. 

"I'll see what I can do," he murmurs, smoothes the collar of the jacket, and settles himself in the armchair. His pose at first feels a little formal, a little more Bond villain than Bond - Abbey snaps a few shots anyway, which seems kind of her. Greg's not quite sure where his hands should go.

He then allows himself to slump slightly - turn a little, settling in the chair more casually than a suit would normally dictate - and he allows himself to look into Mycroft's eyes.  _ Antarctica,  _ he thinks, and fights his smile, trying to imagine for a moment that they're alone. This is just episode two of the adventures of Greg Bond. He's broken into Antarctica's decadent master bedroom, arranged himself in a chair ready to be found, and Antarctica is about to learn a valuable lesson in turnabout and fair play.

More ease comes to his body; a glitter takes over his eyes. The uptake in clicks from Abbey is reassuring, and he lets it melt away a little more reserve, relaxing further into the chair and holding Mycroft's gaze all the while. He raises his chin; if they were alone, it would be an unspoken command.  _ Come here. Get in my lap.  _ It's just a pose for Abbey, but it might make a pretty photo. The tiny smile helps.

On an idea, Greg tousles a hand slowly back through his hair. It's a little arrogant, a little defiant; he finds himself increasingly aware he's naked under this suit. 

It starts coming through in the photos.

*

Mycroft runs his tongue over his teeth. If Gregory were so inclined, he could easily have a career as a model. He has to resist the urge to go get on his knees in front of the chair and tease that lusciously challenging look out further, and the expression on his own face is laced with desire as his eyes skim over his lover’s form.

He hadn’t counted on how hard it would be not to touch Greg during this, not to simply let his whims guide him.

Then again, he’s always prided himself on self-control.

“Mycroft?” Abbey’s voice is enough to draw him out of the threat of reverie- a good thing, considering he’d prefer not to get an erection in front of her, even if he knows she’d be a consummate professional about it. “You mentioned the tie….”

“Yes.” He swallows, standing and stepping over to Greg. This time he notes the clicks as he loosens his lover’s tie. She must catch it when he pulls it away, and he wonders how that will look: his hand drawing on it like a leash, Gregory looking up at him.

He swallows. His fingertips draw a line down Greg’s buttons, scarcely making contact, and pause where they meet the clasp of Greg’s belt.

“A bit dishevelled might be nice. Ladies get away with a dropped shoulder and an open dress zip, a hint of lingerie… men have more pieces to play with.” He smiles, pressing the point of one tooth into his tongue. 

“Bond after work, perhaps?”

*

Greg's eyes sparkle quietly.

"Forgot to pack my lingerie," he murmurs, settles back in the chair and holds Mycroft's gaze as he undoes a few buttons of his shirt - just down to mid-chest, allowing a triangle of dark hair to appear. "Scatterbrain that I am."

His gaze doesn't move as he undoes his belt, taking his time - this second half of their shoot seems to be less about posing, more about creating situations for the camera to capture. He feels sexier unfastening his belt and gazing at Mycroft, even in the presence of a stranger, than he ever would posing while trying to suck in his stomach.

When the belt is loose, he leans back in the chair and scruffs idly through his hair again. He lets his arms stretch up and rest over the back; he grins a little, still regarding Mycroft with come-hither eyes.

"Am I doing this right?" he asks, fondly. "Or do I just look like I've crawled in drunk?"

*

“Yes, you’re doing… quite nicely.”

Mycroft discreetly loosens the top button of his shirt.  _ Nicely _ does not entirely cover it. The photos will be utterly gorgeous. Magazine worthy, even- like one of those men’s fragrance ads.

He’d backed out of the shot while Greg loosened his buttons, but Abbey is, apparently, far more observant than even some of his own agents.

“Mycroft? Why don’t you stand next to him. Another set of hands in the photo will look lovely.”

_ Hands? _ Well, yes, that  _ would _ look…. But then there’s the matter of Mycroft himself being in the photos, and he’s not entirely sure how to feel about that.  _ But, perhaps- if it is just my hands….  _ “Erm. Did you have in mind any.... particular way?”

“However makes both of you comfortable. You both have great instincts for modeling, really. Why don’t you start with his tie again?”

Mycroft glides over, standing beside the chair for a moment. He feels oddly shy about being specifically included in some way, and his smile shows it as he fingers Greg’s tie, his back to the camera.  _ But it’s Greg. And look how beautiful he is. _

His fingers drift lower, curling into that visible tuft of hair, and then slide higher, gently tilting Greg’s chin up.  _ Mine. My love. _

And all the while the camera clicks.

*

_ Oh - darlin' - _

Greg's heart squeezes as he spots the flicker of shyness. He supposes old habits are hard to break - there must be all kinds of security concerns about being photographed with someone in a compromising position, even if it's a professional shoot with your own partner. Maybe Mycroft's enemies would have a lot to say about such pictures; maybe Mycroft's colleagues would have even more to say.

They'll never see them, of course - but the fear must still be there.

He lifts his head to Mycroft's gaze, his eyes softening with warmth and obedience. He reaches up to lay his fingers gently over Mycroft's.

"We'll be glad," he murmurs. He smiles, tilting his head to kiss Mycroft's fingertips. The rate of clicking briefly increases. "When we're old... looking back on how we were."

_ How we were, together, now. How young. How passionate. How close already. _

Greg holds Mycroft's gaze, placing his lips against the inside of his lover's wrist. His pupils grow.

"Come sit in my lap, maybe," he suggests. "Just for one or two. Gaze at me a bit and take my tie off." The words stroke his lips against Mycroft's pulse, feather-soft. "We're both still clothed, darlin'. Still decent. Nothing to worry about."

*

Mycroft’s heart fills, feeling like it’s widening in his chest. “ _ When we’re old.” As though you cannot imagine it another way. _

_ My forever. My always. _

_ Looking at me like that. _

Gregory is correct, of course. Why wouldn’t Mycroft want to preserve this? Why shouldn’t he want to preserve every bit of their life?

His lip curls up into a smile. Yes. They do deserve to be in these photos, together- their love, on display. In every way. “I’m not sure you’re ever  _ decent, _ Gregory,” he murmurs teasingly. 

Mycroft steps around the back of the chair slowly, dragging his fingertips across Greg’s chest as he winds around to the other side and slides onto his lover’s lap. His eyes are dark and a little fiery as they settle on Greg’s and his finger hooks into the knot of Greg’s tie. 

With steady deliberation, he shifts closer, brushing his lips against Greg’s cheek and then turning them cheek to cheek, so the back of his head is to the camera. “Is this what you had in mind?” he whispers as his teeth slowly close on Greg’s earlobe.

*

Abbey gets three rather priceless shots in quick succession: one which will never be displayed in public areas of the house, as it features Greg quite clearly biting into his lip with a silent moan, his eyes shutting with enjoyment; two, in which he attempts to get a hold of himself, exhaling through the sensation; then three, the breaking laugh bright in his eyes as he looks directly into the camera and grins with startled embarrassment. 

His arms tighten around Mycroft in a hug. He nuzzles playfully into his lover's neck.

"You're a devil when you want to be... you know that?" he husks. "You won't be smiling when I send that out as our Christmas card."

He leans back a little, still grinning, and presses the tips of their noses together.

"Love you," he murmurs. His eyes glitter. "Hellion."

*

“I learned from the best,” Mycroft breathes, nuzzling their noses together. “However, if you send that out, I shall ensure Sally Donovan acquires an extra set for distribution.” 

He lifts a challenging brow as he leans back, draping himself across the chair, and taking the knot of Greg’s tie with him. “Love you too, darling.”

It is perhaps not the most comfortable position, but he hopes it provides a good view of Greg’s chest to the camera as he unknots the tie and slowly pulls it from around his lover’s neck. It ends up flung to the floor by the closet, much like it would if this truly were them coming back after dinner and teasing their way into a good fuck.

Mycroft’s hand slips inside Greg’s shirt, tracing the lines of his pecs, then works back to the buttons and opens a few more. 

“I think I want you on the bed next, lovely,” Mycroft says in an idle tone that implies he means more than just the next set of photos. “Shirtless, I think.” His gaze lifts, the camera marking the point where it is caught between adoration and desire.

“Might you be ready for that?”


	9. Chapter 9

As Greg slips his shirt off his arms, drapes it over the corner chair and turns towards the bed, he understands why they give people props for these boudoir shoots. You can _ do something _with a rose, a length of silk, a pair of opera gloves. When the prop in question is as big as a bed, it's strangely tricky to work with. Other than flopping across it on his back, he's not got many initial ideas. His usual concern in bed is Mycroft and Mycroft's body, rather than forming pretty positions with his own.

As he stands by the bedside table, quietly undoing the clasp of his watch, he becomes aware of Abbey behind him catching a few clicks. He glances up over his shoulder at her, quietly amused, and she gives him a reassuring smile. 

"It's not so much about creating a pose with men... is it?" he says, out of interest. Conversation seems relaxing right now. The move from chair to bed is a step further into intimacy, and he's trying not to seem aware of it. "It's more about... I don't know, candid moments. Details of a private life."

*

“It can be.” Abbey smiles at him as she adjusts a setting on the camera, picking the perfect angle for herself to stand in. “Quite a lot of women who want a boudoir shoot are looking to... put the spark back in things. Feel sexy again, or try to convince their partner of the same. Not all of them, of course, but a fair number.”

“With men, at least the men I’ve shot, there tends to be more confidence. Some of them are doing it out of pure vanity, sure.”

“But the best shoots are always the ones who really show _ themselves _, as they are. Not putting on an act. Sharing something honest.”

Mycroft tucks the chair back into its usual corner, listening. _ Honest _ is the foundation of this entire trip, isn’t it? Firming the very rocks that their relationship is built on. Filling each other with love. Sharing, in every way.

His eyes glitter as he watches Greg, settling himself back out of view of the camera.

“That said, Greg, if you want to pose, you certainly can. You’ve got a great look for the camera. Whatever makes you most comfortable is going look perfect, alright?”

*

Greg resists the obvious joke about someone fetching him a bag of crisps, a cup of tea and a TV showing a decent football match. This is a different kind of comfort; it doesn't end with him covered in cheese crumbs. 

Judging by the look on Mycroft's face, it's going to end much better than that.

He smiles at his partner, well aware what kind of things will now be going through Mycroft's mind. He lets them linger in his own as he sits on the edge of the bed, drops back and puts his arms behind his head, grinning up at Abbey as she leans over him to get a shot from above. It's very women's-magazine-centrefold; it's cheesy as hell and he knows it, and his eyes shine with playfulness.

"This is for your wallet, Myc," he explains, then levers up to rest on his elbows and treats Abbey's camera to a look which is wry and smouldering at once. The scruffed hair helps. He even pouts a little, winking. "Maybe your desktop background at work."

He knows there are love-bites visible on his neck and shoulders; he hopes the camera's catching them. These days, he never feels properly dressed without at least one.

*

“Cheek,” Mycroft admonishes, though he hardly means it. He’d love to have any of these photos where he could regularly see them, even from his rather boring office. Perhaps he might get away with one, if it’s relatively tame. The couple photos from outside will be an easy choice. He’ll have to see if any others slip in from this set.

It’s not escaped Abbey that Greg seems slightly at a loss for what to do with his hands, even though he is coming up with alternatives quite well, and she’ll have a very nice set of him looking fetching and fun. “We can find you something to hang on to, if you like, Greg. Some men like a belt or a tie.”

She glances at Mycroft. “Unless you had something particular in mind?”

Mycroft chews the inside of his lip. Most of their new bedroom accoutrements might be a bit excessive to share in a photo shoot, and it’s not as though they have anything else of particular sentimental attachment. There are flowers downstairs, but that seems too… staged.

“Why don’t you sit with him for a few, then?” Abbey suggests. “Greg can have his head in your lap. Stroke his hair, maybe.”

Mycroft bites the inside of his lip harder, trying to ascertain if she _ knows _ about his feelings regarding Gregory’s hair, or if that was a simple guess. He can’t tell- or, rather, he’s not entirely sure he wants to know.

“Very well.”

*

Greg shuffles over to make room on the bed, smiling up at Mycroft. Abbey's level of insight would make her into a decent police officer - she's spotted that Greg relaxes more with Mycroft close enough to touch. It feels more intimate like this, like the photographs will show much more than just Greg. They'll show Greg in love, and that matters.

When Mycroft's comfortable, Greg eases closer and rests his head in his lover's lap, looking upwards with a cosy sort of fondness. His smile broadens; he feels like Marmalade like this, come to claim attention.

He pulls at his lower lip gently, holding Mycroft's gaze. 

_ Pet me, _say his eyes. 

*

“Rogue,” Mycroft mutters, smiling down with one lifted brow. _ Biting his lip while I stroke his hair. Honestly. _

That won’t stop him from running his hand through those luscious silvery locks, of course.

Being in photos like this… the more they go on, the less he finds it bothers him. He’d expected to hide from the lense, to be content coaching Gregory on some degree of sexualized posing (let no one say he has not put some effort into finding suitable methods of indulging Greg’s exhibitionist streak)- but it’s become more intimate than that. It could be a study of them at home, comfortable and content- and sexual, yes, but that only emphasizes their closeness and the degree of what they share.

He drapes one arm over Greg’s chest, his shirt a marked contrast to Greg’s bare skin. The fingers in his lover’s hair press deeper, massaging his scalp.

_ I love you, _ his smile says back. _ Very much. _

*

Greg's eyes fog with contentment. He grins dazedly up at Mycroft, enjoying the gentle massage so much that for a moment he forgets Abbey's even in the room with them. This feels easy and comfortable - and they might just have it the rest of their lives.

It's amazing.

Shifting gently, he leans over to Mycroft's stomach and bites coyly at his clothing, giving it a little tug. 

"You're overdressed," he murmurs as he releases it. The round-eyed, slightly softened gaze is one Mycroft might recognise - it's the same one Greg usually wears when he has Mycroft's cock several inches in his mouth. This time, it's coupled with a small smile. "Can I dishevel you a little, love?"

*

There’s a photo in that set Mycroft is sure they will cherish later- Greg’s teeth coyly nipping into cloth as Mycroft looks down like a rather bemused emperor, adoring tolerant of his wild consort. That Anthea will probably find it and edit crowns in as appropriate only adds to the effect.

“I thought we were only glamourising you today, beautiful.”

He doesn’t protest, however, as Greg’s fingers find his cufflinks and delicately unfasten them, setting them aside on the nightstand. He leans back as Greg starts on his shirt buttons, settling into the pillows. 

_ I am comfortable with you. In our bed. If I blinked I might forget she is here at all. _

“How much disheveling are you intending, love?”

*

"As disheveled as you can handle, darlin'. Not one button more."

The corner of Greg's mouth lifts, his eyes warm as he gazes down from Mycroft's side. He almost doesn't know what he's expecting. In their time together, he's more than once experienced a Mycroft whose sexual confidence is off the scale; but then, those three-piece suits are steel-plate armour. Removing them in the presence of someone else, someone wielding a lens, is a game-changer.

More than anything, Greg finds himself curious.

It shows in his eyes as he makes his way through Mycroft's buttons. Each one is approached with the slow stroke of a finger, toyed with for a few moments, then very gently slipped apart. Even when the fastening is undone, Greg waits before proceeding to the next. Part of him anticipates with each button the request to stop; part of him starts to wonder if it's coming at all. 

His smile grows as he gets further down. In his own mind, he's already reconciled himself to losing every stitch of his clothing before this is over. They might only do this once. When he looks at the photos, he wants to be proud he went the whole way.

_ Are you following me there, love? _

He doesn't dare say it aloud. It's all in his eyes - intrigue, that Mycroft just might; assurance, that he certainly doesn't need to; love, for whatever decision is made.

_ Tell me when it's too much - the moment it's too much. You know I love you. You know I want you. Don't need to share it, if you don't want. _

*

Mycroft watches Greg work, his fingers so careful and each gaze so loving. _ Gentle with me, aren’t you. _There are parts of his body Mycroft is not so loving toward, parts that make him anxious when he looks on them in a mirror, even if he can ignore them well enough when he’s rolling around in the sheets with Greg.

Somehow, having Greg reveal them makes it less… disquieting. He is allowed to be relaxed, here, he reminds himself. He’s allowed to be silly, and joyful.

Even in a photograph.

Reconciling himself to it, he reaches up and runs his hand through his own hair as Greg reaches his final button, undoing the flat, pinned-down look he usually favors. His rogue curl drops instantly, brushing his forehead.

“We should have acquired some lacy pants,” he murmurs, stroking Greg’s cheek. That will be a soft and sensual photo, when it’s done. Loving. Sexy.

“I suppose we’ll all be grateful that you have a nice, photogenic arse.”

*

Greg grins, his heart thumping at the sight of that escaping curl. He _ loves _that curl. It's Mycroft's sleepy sunday morning curl; nobody else gets to see it as much as Greg. He adores it with all his soul.

"I'll get you some for your birthday," he murmurs, tilts his head and kisses Mycroft's fingertips. His eyes seem to glow in the soft light. "Really posh ones. The kind you tug one string and off they come - that's how you know they're posh."

He leans down, following the curve of Mycroft's inner arm all the way to the pillows. He places his lips on Mycroft's forehead.

"I love you," he says. Softly, his voice low, he adds, "M'so proud of you. You're everything to me."

The quiet clicks of Abbey's camera barely disrupt the edges of Greg's consciousness; he's aware of her, and yet somehow not at all. It's strange how easy this is starting to feel.

He wonders about the most intimate scenario she's ever photographed - how far it went.

What the limit is.

*

Mycroft glances up into his lover’s eyes, a mix of shy fondness and a bit of playful cheek. Greg looks remarkably comfortable to him, so easy in his own skin. It rubs off on him, spreading contentment through Mycroft’s core.

_ It’s just a camera, isn’t it? Nothing Anthea or her team wouldn’t see if they decided to turn on the internal feeds. Tame, even. _

“I love you, darling. So very much.”

He runs his hand up the line of Greg’s abdominals, tracing through his sternum and up his throat. Once there, he slides it back, getting enough of a hold in Greg’s silvery hair to draw him down and into a deep kiss.

There are so many ways for a camera to catch this- Mycroft has some peripheral awareness of where Abbey is in the room, though her movements are so subtle that she can shift quite a good distance without him knowing. But, as the thought strikes him that there might be an opportunity for a bit more in this photo, he shifts his other hand down, hooking his fingers around Gregory’s belt.

He doesn’t remove it- doesn’t even unbuckle it- but just pulls at it, gently, so it might look like he is. 

_ Inspiring me, hellion. _

*

It's quite a balance to strike: allowing enough interest to show so that the photos come across as natural and authentic, but not so much that Abbey starts to worry they actually have forgotten her. 

Greg errs on the side of caution, keeping a tight hold on his reactions. If they were alone right now, Mycroft might get a growl and a thrust against him. With Abbey in the room, the response has to be rather more subtle. Greg's chest expands with his silent in-breath; his fingers flex a little restlessly into the mattress. The slight press of his hips is of course in response to the pull, and in no way a quiet demonstration to Mycroft that this situation is starting to test his self-control.

By the time their lips part, Greg has taken on the first suggestion of a flush. His gaze is a little intense, his pupils wide as he gazes at Mycroft. 

He rubs their noses together, taking a moment to get a grip on his pulse.

"If I kiss down your chest maybe, love?" he murmurs. "Is that alright?" He glances sideways to Abbey too, checking quietly. 

*

Mycroft smiles quietly to himself at having caused a reaction- even a small one, given the circumstances. He always delights in getting Greg riled- perhaps more than he should, though Gregory has yet to complain. He’s already begun to suspect that as soon as Abbey is out the door they’ll be tussling over who is pinning who to the bed.

His eyes follow Greg’s to Abbey, who still wears her rather placid, calm smile. “If you like. I can get some decent closeups, actually….” she shifts to a kneeling position by the bed, where she can easily zoom in and catch lip and tongue on skin- if that bothers her at all it doesn’t show, in fact she seems excited about the artistic prospects of the photos. “Work like this looks lovely in black and white,” she comments idly. “Remind me to send you samples of both.”

Mycroft hums an affirmative to each of them, arching his brow at his lover and offering one more soft kiss. “Proceed, then, hellion.”

*

Greg finds himself reminded of the old joke about the difference between porn and erotica - that erotica's filmed in black-and-white. It makes him smile as he strokes open the sides of Mycroft's shirt, baring his lover's chest. He can already imagine these particular shots, maybe printed on canvas in their bedroom; Mycroft identifiable only through his freckles, Greg's mouth brushing tenderly across them.

_ God, this'll be a hell of a memory when we're seventy. _

As he kisses his way from Mycroft's collarbones to his belt, he moves slowly and with purpose. Sometimes his eyes are lowered, concentrating on his lover's body and the trail he's now following. At other times they're raised to Mycroft's face, his gaze soft with submission and hope of approval. 

Reaching Mycroft's navel, apparently with a thought to the photos, Greg sweeps a slow and unbroken lick back up to Mycroft's heart. The wet pad of his tongue shines a little in the light.

Back down, nuzzling over Mycroft's stomach, and with his nose now level with Mycroft's crotch, Greg aims a rather playful glance up the bed. 

He opens his mouth, reaching towards the end of Mycroft's belt. _ Can I? _

*

There is only half a second where Mycroft is entirely free with his expression- eyes fluttering closed, lips just parted in a contented sigh, his head starting to fall back. Abbey catches it, of course. She catches everything. 

When he brings himself back under control, it’s to meet those lovely dark eyes looking up at him so earnestly. _ Good god. _Mycroft may have to politely excuse Abbey at this rate- but he’s still staved off any particular visible sign of nascent and unquenchable arousal. 

He strokes Gregory’s cheek with his thumb in a tacit mark of approval. _ Yes, you can touch. Always. I am entirely yours. _

Even when Greg reaches his belt, and he has to brace himself with a steadying inhale, he nods, scarcely perceptible, his cheeks flushed and eyes a little wide. _ God, if this ends up with my cock on film.… _It makes his heart race, and he cannot tell if it is because the thought makes him nervous… or just a bit excited.

“I suppose you don’t need gloves or roses when you have a willing, interactive prop instead,” he says as casually as he can manage.

*

"You're very convenient," Greg responds, amused, then applies himself to the task of opening Mycroft's belt with his teeth. 

The first stage is surprisingly easy - soft leather sliding through belt loops, and Greg's aware of Abbey moving beside the bed to catch a higher angle. It'll come out as something of a POV shot for Mycroft. Teasing aside, Greg's realising how glad he is to have Mycroft involved. _ These _ are the moments he wants to capture and look back on - not how he looked alone, posing playfully on the bedsheets, but how he looked with Mycroft's belt in his mouth, his hair scruffed on end and a gaze which says, _ the very second she's gone, we are going to fuck like animals. _

When it comes to the metal buckle, a little assistance is needed from Greg's hands. He does it slowly, carefully, holding Mycroft's eyes all the while, then returns as soon as he can to just his mouth. With the belt undone, the zip yet unlowered, he smiles and reaches for one of Mycroft's hands, moving it into his hair. He encourages with a gentle scrunch.

"Pretend like it's turning you on, love," he murmurs. "Sure Abbey won't mind. She's seen it all before."

He takes the now loose end of Mycroft's belt between his teeth again, staging a gentle pull like a defiant puppy with its leash. For authenticity, he adds a soft growl.

He's noted a distinct rise in the rate of clicking again.

_ Good. _

Mycroft can have an entire office calendar printed. Twelve long months of black-and-white blowjob foreplay, captured in exquisite detail. 

*

Mycroft glances toward Abbey, slightly apologetic- he doesn’t wish to assume her comfort level- but Gregory is proven correct as she simply shrugs and winks. “We can negotiate if anything exceeds the original fee parameters.”

_ Right. _He swallows, nodding, his hand tightening in Greg’s hair, just the way he usually would when guiding him onto his cock. His cock, which is starting to see a bit of circulation. He’s not hard yet, not really, but things are filling out a bit.

_ Just there is fine, I shall simply… restrain myself from going further. _

He’s distantly aware that might in some way qualify as_ edging _, but Mycroft elects not to think too much on that just now.

His fingers tighten further in Greg’s hair, gently pulling him toward the zip. _ It will make a good photo. _He’s always thought Greg looks utterly beautiful at his most intimate- with Mycroft’s cock in his mouth, looking up for approval; riding him; the moment he orgasms- Mycroft is sure they won’t be able to quite capture all of those even with Abbey’s great skill, not unless both of them become quite a bit more daring than he expects.

_ But we can get close. _

*

Ever obedient, humming softly, Greg allows himself to be coaxed to Mycroft's zip. His eyes are round and soft as he noses open the fastening, taking care not to rub Mycroft's cock - for all the flirting and eye-fucking, he doesn't want to put Mycroft through discomfort here. There's a line between suggesting sex and having it. Teasing is fun; tormenting is not.

He concentrates on making this look good but feel easy. He catches Mycroft's zip between his teeth and pulls it down, carefully, making sure Abbey has time to get the shots.

When he's at the bottom, he holds for a moment for a last photo - then lets go, lifts his head an inch or two, and gives Mycroft a gentle grin.

"That'll look amazing," he murmurs. He sits up slightly, laying his hands on Mycroft's bare stomach. His thumbs stroke fond circles as he speaks. "Did you have any more ideas for while I've still got trousers on, love? Anything else while we're on the bed?"

*

“Mmm… maybe one. Come up here a bit, darling?” 

Mycroft shifts off the pillows a bit and slightly down the bed and gestures for Abbey to move in behind him. He won’t really be in this shot, but she gets the idea of what he’s going for quick enough.

With a soft smile, he draws Gregory up until his lover is more or less straddling his own chest. “Keep just there, lovely.”

He reaches one hand up, pressing it to Greg’s chest, flexing his fingers like someone in the throes of passion might. “Toss your head back, if you like.”

“Either that or look a little predatory. Or both,” Abbey suggests. “Good shot composition, Mycroft, ta.”

Mycroft smiles up at Greg. “You are quite welcome.”

*

Greg's not sure he could grin any wider in this moment if he tried. He wipes the smile from his face, telling himself this is art and it's not a laughing matter. 

"Get my Oscar ready," he says, with a wink, and leans back a little to brace his hands on Mycroft's thighs. It's where they usually go when this particular position is assumed. _ Add some authenticity, _he thinks, and throws his head back, letting Abbey get the exposed column of his throat. It takes some concentration to ignore the instinct to rock his hips and grind down. 

After a few clicks, enjoying the flex of Mycroft's fingers on his chest, he tips his head forwards again and treats his lover to a soft, predatory glare. It works rather well. It works even better as he shifts one hand to Mycroft's chest, gazing down with a quiet and loving ferocity.

"I love you," he murmurs, his eyes sparking. The look breaks into a grin. "Can't wait to see these." He takes Mycroft's hand from his chest to kiss it, dotting his lips along the ridge of Mycroft's knuckles. "This was an amazing idea, darlin'."

*

“I am very glad it’s proven enjoyable.” Mycroft’s smile broadens, and when Abbey has wrapped up with this set he is more than happy to lean up and press a soft kiss to Greg’s lips. “I love you too.”

Abbey flips through some of her shots as they reset, with Mycroft extricating himself from the bed with another kiss to Greg’s cheek. “Remember, you needn’t go any further than you are comfortable with. I don’t have any ideas for this portion, really- however you’d like to pose shall please me.”

He does up his own fly and belt again- it feels odd to walk about with it undone- and pokes his head into the bath to get his robe, pulling that on instead of a shirt, just in case he is needed in some manner of undressed state again. 

“Alright,” Abbey says as she finished whatever small tweaks to her camera settings are required. “Down to pants?”

*

"Right." Greg stands up briefly to remove his trousers. If there's a sexy way to get out of these things, he still hasn't discovered it - the best he's ever managed when stripping for Mycroft is a sort of thumb-hook wiggle, which still becomes ungraceful when leaning down to free his feet. It's better to get out of them now.

As he hands the discarded trousers to Mycroft, he notes the bath robe with quiet interest. A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. _ I hope so, darlin'. We'll see. _

Padding back to the bed, aware of Mycroft's gaze, he settles himself in the middle and lies back, taking a few moments to get comfy. He gives Abbey a bright-eyed smile.

"You know those perfume ads," he says. "They're usually in black-and-white, slightly fuzzy, with a few seconds filmed as if the camera's woken up next to the model... all scruffy hair and sleepy. We could give that a go, maybe?"

He turns onto his side, cushioning his head against the pillows. 

"'Specially if he has to work away at any point."

*

Abbey chuckles. “Yeah, that could work.” A few more clicks to adjust her settings, and she focuses again. “Very nice- you’ve just woken up, yeah- dreaming of your very handsome man off in foreign climes….” She smiles at Mycroft, briefly, between shots.

He smiles in turn. It’s interesting to him, how clear of a sense she has for how to work with them. That right now, it’s best to make it more about the photos- to distance it, for at least a bit, from the sexual element, by making her own presence larger and more obvious. 

_ Really, she would have been an excellent spy. _

His eyes slide back to Greg as Abbey gives a bit of further direction: scruffing up the sheets around him, like he has just been sleeping in the bed; taking up one side and reaching out for the other, for a Mycroft who might be elsewhere.

“Alright… now why don’t you lay on your back- here, and cross your hands behind your head.” She climbs up nimbly, to shoot from above. “Now look up, and the camera is Mycroft after you’ve been waiting very impatiently for him to get home.” 

Mycroft presses his lips together, trying to hide his almost laughing smile. He knows exactly what look Greg tends to have when he’s been impatient for Mycroft to get in bed with him, and he can’t help but picture it now- though he’s not entirely sure that’s the face Abbey is going for, seeing as it usually precedes Mycroft being pressed against the nearest wall.

*

The first expression Abbey receives is a helpless grin, which Greg then guiltily arranges into something less mischievous. He tries to imagine himself as Mycroft, stuck in some lonely hotel room halfway across the world - what image of Greg he might long to return to. 

Greg's expression softens into a look of more hopeful love. The brightness in his eyes remains; he pulls coyly at his lip.

Between shots, as Abbey checks how they're coming out, he steals a sly glance at his partner. This seems to be going well - easing between intimacy and fun, never edging too far one way. He hopes there'll be a wide enough variety to enjoy for years to come.

Out of sight of the camera, he stretches out a foot towards Mycroft. His toes fan. _ C'mere. _He feels better, touching - even with these solo shots, it'll be nice to remember they were taken with Mycroft just there out of sight.

"Darlin'... can I have a couple of you? Keep me out of trouble when you're away. Otherwise I'll be pining like mad."

*

Mycroft perches on the edge of the bed, taking Greg’s foot into his lap. His fingers press into the muscles in a gentle massage, not soft enough to tickle nor hard enough to make Greg cry out. 

“I suppose, since you’ve been good,” he says in enough of a heating tone to refrain from suggesting to Abbey any similar phrases often uttered under far more risqué conditions. Mycroft grins wryly. “Though I am not sure the camera will be as flattering to me in just my pants, love.”

Or perhaps he simply cannot picture it of himself. Mycroft Holmes, male boudoir model. But if it makes Gregory happy….

“When you’re done, darling. Just tell me what you’d like.”

*

Greg's eyes fog with enjoyment as Mycroft starts rubbing his foot, his smile growing a little fuzzy. 

"S'just for me," he promises. "I won't be showing it off around the division. Might show Marmalade. Nobody else, though."

He lets Abbey get a few more shots, then sits himself up and vacates the space in the centre of the bed. 

"Come lie down," he says, patting. "Shall we go for 'just waking up' for you as well? Matching set? Then you can gaze at me, and I can gaze back at you, however many thousands of miles apart." 

He shuffles off the bed, kneels on the floor beside it and rests his forearms and chin upon the edge, giving Mycroft something to look at.

"Pull the sheet over if it makes you comfier, darlin'. Whatever feels cosy."

*

“That is very romantic, darling.”

Mycroft considers the vacated space for a moment. He wants Gregory to be pleased by these- even if part of him is still quite well-trained to feel a bit nervous whenever things including his face are documented on film.

_ It’s love. Just a way of showing love. Nothing to be afraid of. _

He crawls to the center of the bed, slipping the robe off and sliding it over the side, out of view. Pulling the sheet up seems to be a good thought, as he would not be wearing his trousers to bed- yet they stand out too much, his belt outlined by the soft linen, and that won’t do either. He does not _ just wake up _ with trousers on, after all.

Cautiously, he undoes his belt under the cover of the sheet, and slips his trousers off, nudging them over the side as well. He keeps the sheet over his pants- he knows, _ knows, _ Anthea will end up finding these eventually and he’d prefer not to face any criticism on his choice in pants. Besides, with the sheet draped just so, he’ll look nude, and Mycroft has the feeling Gregory will prefer that effect more. 

One long pale leg edges out, slightly bent, as he finds a comfortable place in the pillows and finally looks to Gregory, eyes half-lidded. _ I love you. _

*

Greg gazes back at Mycroft, a little overcome. He doesn't know what's affecting him more: the half-lidded look in Mycroft's eyes, the quiet bravery Mycroft's showing by doing this, or the thought that this moment is about to be captured on camera to keep forevermore. 

He kneels up for a moment, leans over the bed and steals a single gentle kiss from Mycroft's mouth, unable to help himself. As his fingers brush through Mycroft's hair, tousling it just a little, he catches a sly couple of clicks from the bedside.

He can't blame Abbey. 

If these photos end up looking even half as good as Mycroft does right now, Greg's going to send her flowers.

"You look gorgeous," he murmurs, and brushes a kiss between Mycroft's eyes. "You're absolutely beautiful."

It's almost distressing to let go. Greg settles back at the side of the bed with Abbey, rests his chin upon the mattress and smiles softly, his pupils wide as he holds his lover's gaze.

"Just like that, darlin'... you're perfect."

*

“Thank you, love.”

It’s easy to focus on Greg, to ignore the camera clicking away just above his lover’s head. _ Sleepy _ and _ fond _ are easier than trying to look _ sexy, _especially with Greg filling him with flattery and then looking at him like he’s hung the moon. Mycroft cannot help but smile foolishly in return, too filled with affection to do ought else.

If it were just he and Greg, Mycroft expects he would be able to look _ sexy _ without issue. But this is not about that.

Showing that he is in love shall be just fine.

He tries a few on his side, then rolls to his back, letting Abbey offer quiet suggestions here and there as she shoots him in profile, then from above. When the camera is above him, and he is splayed with the sheets draped over him like he did just wake up, he finds himself reaching out a hand toward Greg, his gaze sneaking back to his partner- his future husband- no matter where he is.

_ My love. I would like all of these to be yours, and yours alone. _

*

_ Oh god, this is actually happening. This is my life. _

_ And you're mine. _

It takes considerable effort to stay back. Greg's every instinct now aches to ease closer, to slip his hands beneath the sheets and pull Mycroft gently against his body. This is torture. 

Mycroft looks so good it almost hurts.

_ Jesus. I need to marry you. I need to marry you right now. I need to have married you already. _

_ God, I... _

He wraps his fingers with Mycroft's, his eyes not leaving his lover's face for even a moment.

"If you could see yourself," he manages, not ashamed of the slight strain in his voice. He smiles as he swallows around it. "If you knew what this is doing to me..."

His heart seems to be beating in his throat.

"You're so beautiful."


	10. Chapter 10

Lord knows how long Mycroft lays there, contentedly smiling at Greg, his body obeying Abbey’s gentle directions even as his very soul is occupied with the depth of the love he feels for and from Greg, radiating from them both with depth and fire that could match volcanoes.

Abbey has to clear her throat rather loudly to guide either of them back into the present of the room outside of each other.

“Alright, so- still comfortable doing full kit off, Greg?”

Mycroft lifts a brow at his partner as he slides under the sheets, reaching for his robe before he dares dart out and tie it about his waist. Nude shots- or mostly nude, as some parts are usually rather tastefully covered- had been on the original list, and he has no doubt Greg is willing- but it has been a rather long shoot, in his estimation.

“What do you think, darling? Shall we get a nice framed photo of your arse? Something tasteful for the nightstand?”

*

Greg bites into his grin. He had a feeling this was coming. It's been hovering around the back of his mind throughout the shoot, sometimes with excitement, sometimes with nerves. Now it's here, he finds himself strung perfectly halfway between the two - but it's not hard to tip it to one side.

_ Only live once. I won't be getting any younger or fitter. _

_ And you've been brave as hell, darlin'. Least I can do is reward you. _

"Something tasteful for the  _ lounge, _ love," he says, watching with amusement as Mycroft ties his dressing robe. "Nice and big above the fireplace. Matching coasters."

As Abbey preps the camera, checking the light levels by the window opposite the bed, Greg finds himself considering the flattering drape of Mycroft's dressing robe. 

_ Halfway step,  _ he thinks.  _ Ease me into it. _

"Darlin'? Have we got another robe somewhere? Might be a good start, open around my shoulders... then I can shed it in a tantalising manner."

*

Mycroft chuckles. “Yes, I believe I rescued yours from the floor earlier….” He pokes his head into the bathroom, locating it quickly on the back of the door. It’s a fluffy one, and no doubt will serve Greg well as he grows less covered underneath.

“There you are, dear.” He holds it out for Greg to step into, kissing him gently on the back of his neck. “Tantalize away.”

This time he perches on the end of the bed without being asked, well within reach of Greg and just below Abbey’s position. “Abbey, you’ve heard his request for coasters, so I believe we are looking for ‘worthy of resting a glass on’.”

She chuckles. “I’ll see what I can do. Now- Greg, why don’t you just let it fall a little off one shoulder first? Don’t need to play this like you’re trying to show off a brassiere, so just let the fabric drop where it drops, alright? More like relaxing than anything else. Let’s start with that.”

*

Greg gathers the robe around his shoulders, knots it very loosely around his waist then discreetly sheds his boxer shorts from beneath, tossing them away through the bathroom door. As the camera turns his way again, he finds himself very aware of the fuzzy fabric against his skin. He doesn't quite know whether to smile or not.

His gaze moves instinctively to Mycroft, there at the end of the bed - just an outstretched hand away. A smile begins on his mouth after all.

_ How many times have I stripped for you, love?  _ It's something Mycroft always seems to like - a show - the lazy revealing of skin. The presence of a camera makes this familiar closeness unfamiliar, but it's easy enough to put from Greg's mind.

With his eyes on his lover, he reaches up and runs his hand over his neck - as if he's tired from work, easing the muscles there with a rub. He lets his fingertips catch on the fabric. As he strokes back onto his shoulder, the robe slips back and offers more of his skin, the V-shaped patch of his exposed chest widening. The loose knot around his waist holds, though the fabric itself seems to long to separate.

His pulse slow and deep, Greg keeps his eyes on Mycroft and lets his thoughts dictate what his face is doing.

_ End of a long day,  _ he tells himself, and their pretend play of the last two nights helps make it feel real.  _ Want you to fuck me, slow and hard. Make me forget about work. Don't want to ask you out loud, though.  _

_ Ask you with my eyes instead. _

*

Abbey doesn’t comment- she doesn’t need to, Greg’s instincts are doing fine by themselves, and it’s always better to let subjects follow their own thought patterns. The results are more honest that way.

The corner of Mycroft’s lip quirks up, the intensity of that gaze not missing him one iota.  _ Soon, _ his eyes say back. He lets his own eyes wander, out of view of the camera, participating in his way. They touch the spots he would caress, the bared lines of his neck and shoulder, the places he’d hold while stealing a deep kiss. The swatch of skin along Greg’s chest that he would kiss down as he helped Greg strip off.

“You look beautiful,” he notes, attempting to sound casual for Abbey’s sake, though he doesn’t hide from his own face where his thoughts have drifted. 

_ So beautiful. So good for me. So perfect. _

_ I love you. _

*

_ I love you, too.  _

Greg almost doesn't hear what Mycroft says. He's enjoying this visual foreplay too much, too focused on the weight of Mycroft's eyes as they move across his body. As they dip to the valley of his robe, now low upon his stomach with the fabric eased fully back from one shoulder, he feels the knotted sash start to slip - as if Mycroft's gaze alone has undone it.

Greg lets it slip. The fabric stirs, brushing gently open across his thighs. 

Mycroft and the camera are allowed to glimpse his bare body for just a moment, his cock not quite hard but clearly thickened. Greg then turns, slowly angling himself away, and regards Mycroft instead over his naked shoulder. 

His eyes almost burn.

The robe lowers slowly, offering more shoulder, more skin, more lightly-muscled back. Greg slips his hands into the pockets so he can safeguard the fabric's descent. As it reaches the small of his spine, he gathers the robe around his hips as if shy, crossing the fabric gently at the front to hide himself. Covered, just, he leans back against the nearest wall.

He presses his teeth into his lower lip, blanching it, and pulls it slowly through.

_ Come here,  _ he murmurs to Mycroft with his eyes.  _ Yours. Come unwrap me.  _

*

_ Good god. _

Mycroft has to press a knuckle against his lips as he watches or risk a noise escaping him that would definitively indecorous. The fact that he cannot act on it, nor slip into the start of… assertiveness… make this the single most tantalizing informal striptease he’s seen Gregory accomplish.

He can tell what’s being asked of him immediately, and his tongue flicks out in a subconscious glide over his lower lip as he considers.  _ I have kept my own pants on, after all… and it’s more likely to just be my hands. Bit of jaw, bit of shoulder… she can always crop out the rest. _

Ducking away from the bed, so he will not interrupt the shots, Mycroft circles to Gregory not unlike a stalking predator, slowly winding closer until he’s at Greg’s side. He keeps his back mostly to the camera, to Gregory’s side so he does not get in the way. His hand drifts across Greg’s waist, fingertips brushing lightly across the skin until they hit fabric.

One finger hooks into it.

His lips touch Greg’s shoulder, reassuring and fond, as his other hand finds the small of Greg’s back.  _ I’ve got you, lovely. _

With one slow drag he begins to pull.

*

As the fabric slides, Greg's eyes close. It's not performance. He finds himself for just a few seconds overwhelmed, his heart beating quick and hard as he submits to the gentle tug of his lover's will. He lets the robe pull away, his eyes opening with a faint flutter as he's left fully naked against the wall.

He gazes at Mycroft, shy and wordless. He searches his lover's eyes. 

On the very edge of his awareness, he notes Abbey stepping quietly to one side. Greg can't be sure, but he has a feeling she's angling the shot so Mycroft's body just covers the most intimate parts of his own. It leaves Greg's heart thumping, unsure why. 

Mycroft's fingers brushing the small of his back feel like heaven.

Greg's chest swells. He glances at Mycroft's lips, swallowing.

As his arm goes around Mycroft's back, his touch is as cautious as if they've never shared this kind of intimacy before - as if he's never shown this much of his body or his soul to anyone. 

He draws his lover shyly closer.

_ Want you. Need you.  _

_ Love you. _

*

Mycroft lets himself be pulled closer, nuzzling his face into the hair just behind Greg’s ear. It lets him still feel hidden, even if he is, in a way, proving to be his lover’s prop this time, keeping him just this side of decent.

The discarded robe pools to the floor by his feet. It makes him feel a bit protective, like he must keep his own still robed thigh just in front of Greg. His hand makes fond circles along Greg’s spine.

“You’re doing so well, beautiful,” he murmurs into soft, silvery hair. “You look lovely.” He trails his hand over Greg’s chest appreciatively, knowing how indulgent it will look on film. 

“Would you prefer me to stay right here? You don’t have to show anything you don’t wish to.”

*

Pleasure washes over Greg's features as Mycroft murmurs to him. He doesn't try to hide it; he doesn't think about how it will look. He just feels it and lets Abbey catch it if she wants.

Fondly he noses at Mycroft's jaw, enjoying the stroke of fingers over his bare chest.

"I don't mind," he says, softly. "These pictures're for you... and you've seen it all before..." 

He reaches for Mycroft's hand on his chest, tangles their fingers gently and lowers Mycroft's hand to his hip, resting his lover's grip just below his waist.

"M'not sure how to pose it," he confesses. "I want it to be... soft, y'know? I can lie on the bed, I guess... or... maybe looking in the mirror, with you behind me? Holding me? Feels more real if you're there."

*

Mycroft nods into Greg’s hair. “Let’s try the mirror first, shall we?”

It’s almost a dance, his gentle guiding of Gregory without actually breaking them apart. Abbey is an afterthought, though Mycroft is aware of her quiet presence still, and if he acknowledges her at all it is merely to place them before the mirror at something of an angle, so she has a good view of the reflection.

“Look how lovely you are.”

He slides mostly behind Greg, leaving his arm draped as cover, one hand crossing to reach Gregory’s thigh. Mycroft hasn’t really thought about it in this context, but his beloved is a bit broader than he is- it allows him to slide almost into Greg’s shadow, vanishing himself from the mirror but for hands and suggestion of his head, nestled just behind Greg’s ear. His other arm wraps across a strong chest.

“I am always right here, you know,” Mycroft whispers, low and soft, just for Greg. “Even if you cannot see me.”

*

Greg's gaze flickers, overwhelmed. His eyes close for a moment, forgetting the mirror, the camera, everything, taking a second just to be with Mycroft and feel his lover right there against his skin. 

It's almost enough to make him cry. 

A year ago, if someone had shown him his life right now, he wouldn't have believed it. 

There was a time his tiny flat with its lockable door had seemed like all the joy and comfort he could dream of. Safety was a hard-earned luxury; it was to be cherished. Wanting more would have felt excessive, as if he was inviting fate to come and take away its already generous gift. 

And now...

Now he can stand in front of a mirror, naked, held in the arms of the man who loves him. The world feels comfortable and safe. The future is a path of happy memories, and they'll walk it together - and Mycroft will always be right there.

Greg has to take a moment just to breathe. His throat feels suddenly tight. He lifts a hand to his chest, strokes his fingers between Mycroft's and holds his lover's hand against his heart.

It beats, quick and gentle, against Mycroft's palm.

Greg's gaze finds Mycroft's in the mirror, shadowed at his shoulder. The physical vulnerability of this moment is nothing compared to the emotional; whatever Abbey's getting, these are photographs of his soul.

He takes a breath.

"It's you, Myc." The words are no more than a murmur; he doesn't dare say them any louder. "It's you for good. I-I'm not kidding."

*

“Gregory….”

Mycroft holds his lover- his future husband- a little tighter.  _ We should have known from the start, shouldn’t we? Been able to tell, like in a fairy tale- one quick strike of lightning between us, marking us both. _

His heart fills and overflows and expands to fill again. Mycroft nuzzles his nose against Gregory’s ear, his words soft and almost more comprised of the heat of his breath than sound.

“Us, darling. Eternally.”

He’ll start looking for a ring tomorrow, putting all the thought that may be required into finding the perfect band for the perfect man. At their age there is certainly no rush, but also no reason to wait. And why should they wait? Why should they not shout it at passers by on the street and share that they have found each other with the world.

“I love you, Gregory.”

*

_ 'Eternally.' _

_ 'I love you, Gregory.' _

For a moment, Greg almost asks. He can feel them right there in his mouth,  _ 'marry me,'  _ and this feels like it did when the words were  _ 'I love you'.  _ They have to come out soon. He can't hold them for long. 

Even holding them in now is painful. 

_ Not with Abbey here.  _ It'd be a hell of a photograph - the actual moment they got engaged, whispered to each other before a mirror - but Greg has a feeling Mycroft's a little more traditional than that. There should be a ring, privacy. A proper proposal prepared. 

_ God. _

There's a jeweller in the village.

He'll have to engineer some way to get there without Mycroft knowing, pick something out.  _ It's meant to be two months' salary, isn't it? _ It'll empty his savings account down to dustballs and moths, but he can cover it.

And it'll be worth it.

If he was sensible he'd maybe wait until they're back in London, think about this, take some more time - book a restaurant - but he doesn't want to wait. When they're back in London, they'll both be back to work - and they won't find better privacy than out here.

_ Maybe if...  _

_ Christ, maybe if I ring Anthea, ask her to make up some emergency... something that'll keep Mycroft chained to his laptop for an hour. She'll help, won't she?  _

He supposes he'll have to ask.

He leans back in his lover's arms, glowing with joy and gentle nerves. 

"I love you so much," he whispers. "More everyday. More than I can hold."

Abbey takes a few more shots, catching everything she can of this moment. When she seems to slow, Greg smiles and catches Mycroft's hands, turning in his lover's arms to face him. 

"Bed now?" he murmurs. He sneaks his arms around Mycroft's waist, smiling. "I'll behave. Promise."

*

“Bed,” Mycroft agrees.

It constantly amazes him how much they can fill each other with love, like there is an overwhelming sense of almost divine comfort in every breath they take in the same room. How had he gone without for so long? How had he not known? Is it that rare, for lovers to love as they do?

He kisses Greg’s cheek, realizing that Abbey must have just gotten several excellent shots including Greg’s arse in the mirror, and grins.  _ Coasters after all. _

“Come, hellion,” he murmurs as he backs them over to the bed. “Let’s see if you can, in fact, behave.”

When they reach the edge of the bed he turns them, reaching for the sheet. “If you want a bit of cover, love.” A glance back at Abbey inquires as to her own thoughts on the matter, and she smiles congenially. 

“We ought to do some on your back and some on your belly, Greg, so whichever you’d like to start with first. Maybe Mycroft would be good enough to be your pillow?” she adds hopefully, winking at him.

He huffs a laugh. “The two of you may be the death of me if anyone outside these successfully identifies me in any such pictures, but I consent to further use as a photographic prop in the interests of accentuating Greg’s beauty.”

*

Softly happy, Greg finds that he's settling more inside his own skin. He doesn't feel so obviously naked anymore - it feels more like when he's getting undressed in a morning, heading for the shower.

It means he's even happy without the sheet. He sprawls himself on the bed somewhere vaguely in the middle, comfortable on his back as he gazes up at Mycroft. His smile grows rather playful.

"Nobody'll see them, love. Just for you and me." He grins, absently smoothing the hair on his stomach. "Imagine if London's criminal classes got hold of my boudoir shots," he says, amused. "Cripes. I don't think the chief super would be thrilled, either."

He stretches with a little yawn.

"Come lie down, love. You're way too vertical."

*

“Hmph.” Mycroft smiles despite his protestations- he feels content to let Abbey document their bond, even if he is less inclined to more provocative shots of himself.

As bid, he lays across the top of the bed, his stomach placed so Gregory can find a bit of padding there or on his thigh. The dressing gown is a bit more open at the top, given all his wriggling, but he does not bother to adjust it- no doubt it will add to the effect.

His fingers find Greg’s hair and stroke, gently. “Perhaps your criminals would be crawling over each other to turn themselves in. Whispering about the handsome inspector.”

If they ever engage in another one of these boudoir shoots, Mycroft must make a note to ask Greg about whether or not he still has his old uniform. 

And, possibly, make use of the handcuffs.

“I think we will have to build an extra room in the house to make space for all the photos I will want to hang, love. An entire wing of you. I would quite seriously consider relocating my office there,” he adds with a grin.

*

Greg grins in return, tilting his head happily into the stroking. 

"La Galerie de Greg," he suggests, amused. "Endless corridors featuring photographs of my arse. Every possible angle. Charge people a fiver to get in, run guided tours every Friday." 

This feels so cosy now he has to remind himself that Abbey's still busy taking pictures. He wants to roll onto his belly and kiss Mycroft's, blow bubbles on it until Mycroft fends him off with a pillow. To Greg's surprise, the pictures where he's actually naked could end up being the most casual of the lot. 

_ Who knew?  _ he thinks, arching a little to kiss at Mycroft's fingers. His eyes shine with mischief as he nuzzles his lover's palm.

"Hey... for the last photo... if you feel up to it, darlin'. D'you want to try one together? No robe?" He bites his lip. "You could hold onto me, maybe... chest to chest, look over my shoulder at the camera. I can cover most of you that way. What do you think?"

*

Mycroft notes that bite of the lip, which is nearly always a way for Gregory to gently nudge him into doing something. He knows Mycroft is almost incapable of resisting it.

He considers it. His own pants are still on, after all, though he might arrange himself so it appears to be even less. So long as he is working, however, he ought to hold firm to a no-cock-on-camera policy, just as insurance. It isn’t so much that he fears blackmail- he frankly would not care, for who exactly would they threaten to send it to? His parents? No, it is more for the benefit of those he still works with who would have little tolerance for anything resembling a scandal.

“I shall remove the robe, hellion, so long as my pants remain on.”

He catches one of Greg’s hands and draws it up to press his lips against the knuckles.  _ I trust you. I love you. _

“But do roll over and permit Abbey to acquire a few more shots of your arse first. I should like a diverse array of arse photos from which to choose our new coasters.”

*

"Deal," Greg says, grinning, and shifts himself over onto his stomach. "You can do some clever angling, can't you Abbey? So long as there's the two of us in it... that's all I really want."

He takes a moment to get himself comfortable, resting his chin playfully on Mycroft's stomach and gazing up at his lover, big-eyed.

"We'll have to order two sets," he says, and stretches his toes out to rumple the sheets. "One for your mother for Christmas." He winks, leans down and plants a kiss on Mycroft's stomach where his robe is easing apart. "We can tell her it was done here, too. She'll love that."

*

“Lord.”

Mycroft makes a show of rolling his eyes. If his mother knew he was here at all, especially  _ with _ anyone, he has no doubt she would already be darkening the door to inquire as to why he would be bothering with anything so trivial as a  _ holiday. _ The fact that she is herself meant to be on holiday aside, of course. 

Besides, it is significantly better for his mental well-being that she keep as little apprised of any bedroom activities he engages in, here other otherwise, as possible.

“You are entirely incapable of behaving, I think. Abbey, that will be one set, I don’t care what he says.” Mycroft smiles, ruffling Greg’s hair as he leans up, the robe sliding open a little wider. 

He cannot tell exactly what Abbey has managed to capture, whether she’s managed to catch the fond looks between them, the gentle caress of Greg’s jaw, the way Greg kisses his thumb. But Mycroft is very much looking forward to seeing the results.

Though he feels a fluttering in his stomach at the prospect, Mycroft smiles fondly as he trails his fingers over Greg’s neck and down his back. “For your last set, would that be in bed, darling? Or standing?”

*

Greg smiles, shifts onto his elbows and levers himself up a kneeling position. 

"Right here on the bed," he says, helping Mycroft kneel up too. "Just a couple of quick shots, love... then we'll get the kettle on, and I'll find my pants."

He guides Mycroft to kneel in front of him, chest-to-chest and close. Their height difference is lessened, kneeling; it's nice to look into Mycroft's eyes. Greg's smile is gentle as he reaches for his lover's robe.

"If you don't like how it turns out," he says, softly, easing it down Mycroft's arms, "we can always delete the files."

As Abbey takes her place behind Greg, he gathers Mycroft close to him - a gentle hug, his arms wrapping gently around Mycroft's waist.

"There, love... rest your chin on my shoulder. Maybe put a hand on my back somewhere." With cropping, he thinks, it'll look like they're both undressed. Little of Mycroft apart from his face can actually be seen; the slope of his bare shoulder, the curve of his arm. "Does this feel okay, beautiful? Tell me if you're not sure."

*

“It is… perfectly fine.” Mycroft is almost surprised by that- the fluttering in his belly is still there, but with Greg’s arms about him he feels much sturdier. 

His own arms wrap Greg in turn, fingers tracing lines across his back, one hand landing on his hip. He can sense more than hear the click of the camera as he nuzzles Greg’s shoulder, drawing his lips across and up his lover’s neck until he reaches the soft flesh of his cheek.

“I am always sure when it comes to you,” he says, soft, barely breathing it. Smiling, he allows Abbey to capture that bit of intimacy for a while. They won’t need to delete the files. Not these. Not any of them. 

_ I would not delete any part of my time with you. _

Somewhat playfully, he turns his gaze to the camera directly and lifts a brow as he rests his chin on Greg’s shoulder, shooting it a possessive look. His hands pull tighter, one drawing up between Greg’s shoulder blades. 

_ Mine. _

*

Greg smirks, tilting his head to glance back over his shoulder - as if the camera has just happened upon them in this moment, casually naked together without a care in the world. His eyes glitter; he gives a raise of one eyebrow.

_ His.  _

He doesn't know what it means when a photographer grins mid-shot, but he has a feeling it's good.

In mischievous mood, with a look of perfect innocence, Greg slides his hands down Mycroft's back. He takes his time to enjoy the gentle curve of Mycroft's rump, holding him quite comfortably - protective, almost - his lover, his lover's body, their skin pressed together with the kind of easy intimacy any engaged couple hope to share all their lives.

He then gooses Mycroft, breaking into a grin.

*

Abbey must have a ludicrous degree of self-control, so much so that she manages to keep the camera steady while biting her lip to keep from shaking with laughter. A veneer of professionalism must be maintained, after all, even when one’s clients have completely abandoned it.

Mycroft’s face is caught at high speed in several settings: first, shock, his mouth parted and eyes wide; then an amused, surprised laugh; and finally the smolder of a feigned, chastising glare as his eyes settle on Gregory.

“Gregory James Lestrade, you are an absolutely incorrigible demon.”

He shakes his head, still attempting not to laugh himself, and looks to Abbey.  _ Well, so long as she is not shocked… I may as well retaliate. _

Pressing Gregory into a deep kiss, he leans forward, tilting them both until a gentle shove lands Greg on his back. “I knew you were incapable of behaving.” 

Thus, the last set of photos is actually of Mycroft atop Greg, kissing him hard, with every bit of love and silliness and warmth between them fully on display.

*

It's a wonderful feeling to end on. There's a lot of laughter and happy conversation as they finish up, Abbey scrolling with a smile through her shots from the day. She'll have plenty to work with, she says - it'll be worth getting a full printed album. Greg throws on pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown, heads downstairs and gets coffee ready for when Mycroft and Abbey are done.

She stays a while just to chat; she tells Mycroft she'll get in touch when she's finished processing all the shots. It should be done for soon after they get back to London. They'll be more to discuss then - ordering prints, frames, any variations they'd like - and Greg's already hoping she'll come back to photograph Marmalade for Christmas.

At last, they see her off on the doorstep with an arm around each other, waving as her car winds off towards the road.

When she's finally out of sight, Greg looks up at Mycroft fondly. He presses a kiss to his partner's cheek.

"Seemed to go well," he says. 

*

“Mm, I think so.” Mycroft leans into the touch, offering a kiss of his own to Greg’s forehead. It was, in many ways, tamer than he had been expecting- but it will likely yield far better results, in the end, that they ended up more honest and open than artistically sexy.

And there is something else very domestic about both of them in dressing gowns with coffee on in the kitchen. Like a weekend morning that has drifted well into the afternoon, everything soft and easy.

“You are going to look utterly spectacular in each and every one of those photographs, Gregory,” he says fondly as he draws them both back inside and shuts the door. “Marmalade shall be terribly jealous of all the attention on you until we can arrange Her Majesty her own shoot.”

*

"I keep thinking about that, you know... try and set something up at home. I think she's got the right temperament for it, especially if we were in the pictures."

Greg collects up the mugs from their coffee, carries them over to the dishwasher and opens it, adding them upside down to the top rack.

"Imagine her in that sunny spot, in the window over the stairs... she'd look gorgeous. She'd probably enjoy being brushed, too. I suppose she's always liked attention." He closes up the dishwasher. "Attention from us, at least."

He leans back against the counter, casting his lover a smile. His dressing robe falls open around his chest; his hair's still scruffy from their last few photos.

"So," he says, with a grin. "What d'you fancy doing now?"


	11. Chapter 11

What Mycroft fancies doing now, after he takes the time to let his eyes drift over the gorgeous skin Greg’s robe cannot seem to help revealing, is relive a certain portion of that photoshoot that might have gone otherwise were Abbey not present- and now that it is merely the two of them he can indulge.

“Upstairs, hellion. Let me show you.”

Stairs are managed with only a few brief pauses for snogging against the walls as they let the arousal they had safely pent up take the lead. Mycroft scarcely lets go of Greg as he grasps the back of his armchair in one hand and drags it a few feet over, not bothering to explain. Greg will see in a moment, after all.

It only takes a bit of wrangling to ease Greg into the chair, Mycroft straddling him, kissing down his neck and listening to all those beautiful noises-

And then he drops between Greg’s legs, parting the robe so he can get his mouth on the soft skin of his inner thighs, nipping just a bit, working his way ever closer to his lover’s cock. “Watch yourself, lovely,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the mirror, which now reflects his own back and Greg’s beautifully flushed face. 

“See what I see.”

*

_ God. _

From the moment Greg drops back into the chair, he likes where this is going. Few things in life feel better than a lapful of aroused Mycroft. He's vocal as Mycroft kisses his neck, running his hands with restless interest beneath his lover's robe. It's almost a shock to realise they  _ can _ touch now. They no longer have to keep half a mind on the stranger in the room with them.

As Mycroft sinks to his knees, Greg shivers and breathes out a groan.  _ It's fine,  _ he soothes himself.  _ It's okay now. We can feel it now.  _ He shifts as Mycroft mouths along his inner thighs, flushing, still biting into his sounds through instinct. Mycroft knows his thighs are sensitive. He knows just where to kiss, where feels good to be nipped, where would feel too much at this early stage. Greg's fingers stray with hope to Mycroft's hair as he gets nearer to his cock. He strokes the back of his lover's neck, slowly, watching his own chest rise and fall.

_ 'Watch yourself, lovely.' _

Greg glances uncertainly at the mirror. 

His own reflection looks back at him, wary. It seems strange that his own gaze should feel more intrusive somehow than a camera. He supposes that with Abbey, he had a strange need to show her she was welcome - that she shouldn't feel awkward in their home.

Swallowing a little, Greg tells himself to relax. He settles back in the chair and keeps his eyes on the mirror, ready to be shown what Mycroft wants to show.

His fingers stroke into Mycroft's hair, rubbing gentle circles against his scalp.

"I love you, darlin'..."

*

“Mmmm. I love you too.”

Mycroft takes his time kissing and licking along those supple thighs, enjoying the almost massaging fingers in his hair. So often they attempt to take things slow and fail- with this, he actually can be slow. It’s usually once one of them is seated within the other that they each lose sight of reason entirely.

He waits for Greg to relax into it, to grow used to seeing himself. Mycroft can feel the tension easing off him, slowly. Kissing closer and closer, Mycroft pauses to glance up just before he would reach his lover’s cock.

“This is what I wish I could truly capture on camera… your face, the very moment I-”

His lips close suddenly over Greg’s cock and he dips, taking him in at least halfway, pleased he managed to make it something of a surprise.

*

Greg's mouth opens; the word  _ 'fuck'  _ flashes unspoken across his face, widening his eyes. As he exhales, his teeth dig into his lip. His hips shift restlessly in the chair. 

"A-Are we having a video camera delivered tomorrow?" He's not even sure whether he's joking or not. Part of him realises with mild alarm that he'd actually be up for it. The crumbling rational side of his brain says Mycroft's job is too high security even to contemplate shenanigans like that... but all the same.

It feels like he's reaching the point he'd try anything with Mycroft.

_ So long as it's you,  _ he thinks, gazing down into Mycroft's eyes as a shiver rolls across his skin. He watches Mycroft's mouth sink lower on his cock, his face tightening with restraint and enjoyment. The colour deepens in his cheeks.  _ So long as you're there, feeling with me. Trying things together. I'll try it. _

*

Mycroft chuckles, the vibrations carrying across his throat and onto Greg’s cock. His tongue swirls around the head as he draws back enough to answer. 

“Maybe when we are both retired, love.” 

There are internal cameras in their home, but those only kick on under specific circumstances- like the alarm being triggered- or when Anthea is feeling particularly piqueish. Those feeds are not optimal for catching the detail of their sexual escapades, however, and he’s long kept the one in the bedroom on the door and not the bed.

His hands wrap Greg’s hips, firm enough to hold him in place. 

“Can you see how beautiful you look to me? So lovely and flushed.”

He licks over it like a favorite flavor of lolly, savoring every small reaction he earns. 

“You’re absolutely gorgeous, Gregory.”

*

_ We're gonna make retirement porn.  _

Greg fights the flash of humour - it's so hard, though. He's so relaxed in this moment, so comfortable, and Mycroft always makes him feel like a king when he does this. He groans even as he smiles, shivering, and winds his fingers gently tighter in his lover's hair. The enthusiastic licking makes him ache just a little. It feels all the better for the restriction on his hips as he tries to arch up.

"Myc..." he whispers, his head dropping back. His eyes briefly close, overwhelmed. When they open again, Greg finds his own reflection waiting for him in the mirror. 

His fingers tighten, gently.

_ Pretty.  _

Mycroft's head at his groin; dark hair between his fingers. He watches for a moment, swallowing, enjoying the combination of sensation and sight - long licks to his swollen cock, his lover's head moving slowly as they're given.

Another shudder passes through his body. 

He breathes with it, deep, and lightly pulls at the back of Mycroft's neck.  _ Please.  _

*

“Mmm. More?”

Mycroft, fortunately for them both, has  _ more _ already in mind. Leaving off with a great deal of spit- it’s not as if they haven’t been having sex enough to manage without lube on occasion- he crawls back up, flicking his tongue over one peaked nipple. 

He won’t have much leverage in the position he wants, but that’s alright- they can take this part slow, slow enough to watch.

Once he’s in Greg’s lap again he turns round, his back to Gregory’s chest. His arse skims over his lover’s cock in a semblance of a lap dance, a fact that Mycroft appreciates even more now that he has a good view of the mirror. He hadn’t truly been sure how he would feel about it- fucking in front of a mirror seems to play more toward Gregory’s inclinations to  _ show off-  _ but it is very much tantalizing his own predilections toward what is likely a bit of a voyeuristic streak. 

It’s merely odd to be watching oneself, in his mind, so he keeps his eyes mostly on Gregory as he reaches down and lines up that thick cock with his own entrance. Even nuzzling himself with it, nudging into his own pliant hole feels exquisite. Mycroft sighs contentedly, shifting his hands to the armrests to brace.

“Pull me down, lovely. Pull me onto you.”

*

_ Fuck. _

Greg's hands move to Mycroft's hips as soon as his lover is in his lap. His fingers flex as Mycroft moves against him - this is already hot as hell, his pulse pitching and lurching with each tormenting motion. The sight of Mycroft's bare body in the mirror only tightens Greg's stomach even more.

A groan shudders from his throat as Mycroft guides him into place.  _ Christ, yes. Just like this.  _ He nuzzles into the size of Mycroft's neck, steadies his grip and gently pulls down, easing Mycroft to sink onto his cock. 

He takes it slow. Without lube, the press is tight - it takes longer. It's working for Greg in ways he can't stop to analyse right now. As he draws Mycroft down, inch by squeezing inch, he concentrates on kissing and gently biting his lover's beautiful snowy neck. Nearly there, he takes one hand from Mycroft's hip and reaches around instead for his cock, stroking him slowly from root to tip.

"You are utterly gorgeous," he murmurs, pulling Mycroft down that final inch. His pelvis presses gently into the pad of Mycroft's arse. "You know that? Look at you. Just fucking look at you."

His tongue laves up the side of Mycroft's throat, then dips behind his ear and becomes a soft bite to the lobe.

"This is what I wish we could catch in a photo," he breathes, palming Mycroft slowly over and over. "How beautiful you look, full of my cock. What it feels like, just starting to fuck. How quiet everything goes when we're inside each other."

*

Mycroft lets his mind fade as sensation takes over: the burning, widening press within him merging with the sheer pleasure of Greg’s lips on his throat. He moans as he’s filled, his eyes fluttering shut when his lover’s hand finds his cock.

That slow steady rhythm is almost too much to bear. Despite the need to adjust, Greg’s soft, low words make him want to shift, want to move. He arches back, head tilting onto Greg’s shoulder.

“ _ Fuck,  _ love…. So full of you.”

His eyes open to the sight of himself flushed to his chest, Greg’s dark eyes just behind him, his cock hard and pink-tinged.  _ God.  _ It’s all he can do to just breathe for a bit, feeling every single aspect of their connection.

Mycroft gasps when he finally attempts to move, just a gentle shifting but it feels so deep. Knuckles whitening as his hands clutch at the armrests, he rocks up a little more.

“Gregory- fuck, I love you….”

*

Greg stirs with care beneath Mycroft, shifting just enough to brace his heels on the floor. He can't move much in this position, not without risking Mycroft's balance. He can help, though. He can make this easier for Mycroft.

As he moves, the motions aren't so much thrusts as slow and steady presses, meeting Mycroft's downward rocking each time. He lets go of Mycroft's cock for now in favour of keeping both hands on Mycroft's pelvis, his grip firm and gentle, guiding that rhythmic movement and keeping it slow.

In only a few cycles, it starts to feel smooth and easy. Their bodies know each other; though this pleasure feels brand new each time, the motions to nurture it are familiar.

Greg watches their reflection in the mirror, his eyes dark and deep as he drinks in the sight.

"I love you, beautiful..." he breathes. "I love you so fucking much..."

Mycroft's neck feels as inviting under his lips as fresh-fallen snow. He has to force himself to focus on not biting too hard, marking just gently with the edges of his teeth.  _ You're beautiful. You're so bloody beautiful, and you're mine, and those pictures are going to be the hottest thing on this planet. _

"D'you know how good you feel right now? D'you know what this is doing to me?" Greg's fingers curl at Mycroft's hipbones, pulling Mycroft down just a little harder - but no faster. "That's it... that's it, love, like that. Keep it going for me."

*

Each bottomed out thrust forces a burst of air out of Mycroft’s lungs in a rhythm of breathy groans. He  _ loves _ the feeling of Greg’s hands on his hips, guiding him, pulling him down hard. He can feel the care his lover is exerting, always so tender with him, so generous. 

His eyes flutter again, recording what he can see to his vast stores of memory.

_ Mine. My own. Mine forever. And I am his. _

“Mm- yes- use me, lovely-”

Balancing on the balls of his feet, he uses the added leverage to help him rock and raise him up further, making every bounce in Gregory’s lap that much deeper. He feels awash in it, as the other thoughts in his head begin to dismantle and drift.

One slips through, however, that makes his cock twitch a little more even though his words have grown a touch sex-slurred.

“Greg’ry- you may- you may mark me- harder- s’holiday- it will heal in time-”

*

"Mm hmm?" 

They're always so careful - reputations to maintain, work teams to lead. At home, when there are bites, they're hidden safe beneath collars and they're gentle.

It feels amazing to fuck like nothing outside this house exists.

As Mycroft keeps moving, Greg wraps an arm around his chest. He gathers Mycroft back, coaxing his lover to rest more weight on top of him, and though it robs them of some of their leverage it means he can get his teeth properly into Mycroft's neck - dig them in, bite down and hold on. It feels so animal and so  _ good _ that Greg shudders, biting harder with a soft snarl. 

At once, he needs to chase a little. He needs it like he needs to breathe. He doesn't want to come, not yet, but wants to  _ fuck. _

He shifts, panting softly against the bite he's just made. 

"Spread your legs, love," he whispers, reaches down and wraps his hands beneath Mycroft's thighs, helping to part them over the arms of the chair. When they're open, Greg holds them; his fingers flex, tensing into the soft flesh of Mycroft's inner thighs. 

"Mine," he growls, thrusting up. The effort it takes only makes the feeling better in reward, pushing himself up into the soft and open heat of Mycroft's body. He grits his teeth, groaning, then on a better thought sinks them once more into Mycroft's throat.  _ Mine.  _

_ All mine.  _

_ All of you, mine. _

*

Mycroft cries out, gasping. He’s never felt so open. Between Greg holding his legs and the burst of pain-pleasure at his throat it feels like he’s being taken by a feral version of his love, wild and untamed.

_ Yes, yes, claim me, yes- _

He’s never been terribly quiet in bed, but with the added benefit of being alone in a house with no terribly close neighbors, Mycroft lets himself grow truly loud. Without lube each thrust burns, but he  _ likes _ it- likes the feeling of giving himself over to the sensation of Greg taking him, pure and unadulterated.

Abandoning his grip on the armrests, he leans into Greg’s chest, arching enough that he can reach one hand behind and into Greg’s hair. He watches himself in the mirror as his grip tightens, watches his lover’s thick cock be impaled into him over and over.

“Yours- yours, Greg- nnn,  _ fuck- _ only yours-”

*

"Mine - my darlin', mine - "

This feels so good it's unreal. The sight of Mycroft spread open before the mirror, gripping Greg's hair, taking all the pleasure Greg can fill him with, is so addictive and so hot that the physical exertion means nothing. Even as he grunts against Mycroft's neck, letting out proper groans between his gasps, Greg's thigh muscles swear to him they can do this the rest of the day.

_ And just watch you take, and take, and take... _

"My gorgeous, my Myc - my p-perfect Myc - "

He loves having Mycroft's weight resting on him. He's always loved having Mycroft pinning him down; right now he loves supporting Myc's body, holding him up. There's so much trust in it. He can't think properly in this moment, can't do anything but feel and pant and fuck Mycroft faster as the fingers tighten in his hair, but he can feel Mycroft's trust laid over him. It's so physical, like this. It's so animal. 

He wishes suddenly there were two of him - one to hold Mycroft open, pant his name into his neck and fuck him; the other to kneel between Mycroft's thighs, suck his leaking cock, lick his hole where he's stretched to keep him wet, mark his gorgeous thighs with garnet bites.

*

Mycroft’s free hand drifts to his cock, fisting it and letting each thrust from below grant him a stroke.  _ Only taking what he will give me.  _ There isn’t much stimulation on his prostate in this position, and his cock has flagged somewhat despite his wanton enjoyment. A few strokes take him back to full mast, however, in a pleasurable rhythm with the burn within him.

“Greg- god- yes, yes- more-  _ fuck-” _

He feels like a vessel for pleasure- Gregory’s pleasure- and Mycroft is enjoying every nuance of it. The image in the mirror hardly looks like him, at least not as he pictures himself- that man is a slattern, a harlot, almost begging for it- and a part of him is greatly pleased to know that this resides within him as well, tucked in beside the same impulses that make him want to tie Greg to things and assertively fuck him.

_ Every part of me. All yours. Yours to find and take. _

Drawing his hips open wider, he lets Gregory and the arms of the chair take his weight more, the chase in pleasure enough to make him fall comfortably into it. 

“Nnn- love you- love you so much-”

*

Greg rakes his tongue up Mycroft's neck, flicking over his earlobe.

"I love you too," he breathes. He presses his nose into Mycroft's hair, letting the male musk of sweat fill his lungs as they keep going. "I love you. I love you for good."

It would be so easy to come like this. It would be satisfying, too - chase just a little longer, a little faster, let this be one of those fast and explosive fucks that leave him aching the rest of the day. 

And that might be nice. 

Then he thinks of the time they've just spent together - photographs of Mycroft wrapped only in a sheet; Mycroft lying on top of him in just underwear, kissing him, letting someone capture that moment forever.

When Mycroft looks back at those photographs, he'll remember the sex they had afterwards. 'Frenzied' would do.

Biting into his lip, Greg decides he can do better.

As he slows his thrusts, the muscles in his thighs get their chance at last to protest. They feel like rock and gelatine at once, absolutely solid but trembling to the bone. Greg's chest heaves, sweat now gleaming on his forehead. 

He slips his hands gently from beneath Mycroft's thighs, moving them to his arms instead.

"Take your time," he whispers, giving Mycroft his hands to grip for support. "Sit up nice and slow... then go bend over the bed for me, sweetheart. Get comfy. You'll be there a while."

*

Mycroft’s hand stills as his heart rate abruptly shifts gears. He can see his own flushed, wide-eyed gaze in the mirror, and Greg’s eyes behind him looking deliciously dark and predatory. He tries to swallow, but it comes out as a anticipatory whimper.

“Yes, Gregory.”

His hands find Greg’s, taking a moment to hold them, feeling the love there, letting his body adjust to the idea of standing. He takes it slow, the burn intense, before he’s left feeling empty. Walking is a brief challenge, his muscles protesting the change in position at least until he makes it to the bed and grasps a couple pillows, expecting that for whatever Gregory has planned he’ll be grateful for the padding.

Deciding that “ _ be there a while _ ” sounds both decadent and nerve-wracking, Mycroft also takes a moment to down a bit of water from the cup that has more or less been living on the nightstand, ensuring their nearly endless bedroom adventures remain decently hydrated. 

Once he’s situated, he glances back toward Greg, feeling the depth of want within himself again, of emptiness waiting to be filled.


	12. Chapter 12

Greg eases himself from the chair slowly, giving his muscles time to take his weight. He watches his lover drink with a small smile, and when Mycroft's done, takes the glass from him, finishing it off in one deep swig. His voice still rasps a little as he speaks.

"Good idea, love..." He returns the glass to the bedside, wipes his mouth, then lays his hands gently on Mycroft's back. They're hot with the exertion they've both just been through; as Greg strokes slowly up and down, he finds he loves the slick of sweat on his lover's back. No-one else gets to see Mycroft sweat like this. No-one else gets to be the one who caused it.

He leans down, brushing a gentle kiss across his partner's flushed cheek.

"Stay there," he murmurs.

His muscles warm, the mirror feels easy to move. He places it on the opposite side of the bed to Mycroft, taking a few moments to ensure the angle's just right.

He then returns to his lover, places a kiss upon his lower back, and sinks to his knees on the floor just behind him. 

His hands stroke up the backs of Mycroft's thighs, rounding his arse and massaging gently. He parts Mycroft's cheeks as he kisses his tailbone. 

"You comfy?" he murmurs, and wets the skin with a slow stroke of his mouth. He dips his head a little, sliding his tongue just into the top of Mycroft's cleft. "My poor darlin'... fucked that hard with no lube. Shall I soothe you?"

*

Mycroft cannot stop looking at the mirror.

He enjoys seeing himself in it, lips soft and parted- this image of himself looks almost surprised, his hair askew and a sheen across his skin. It’s not as vulnerable a position for viewing, not as open, but it’s just as pleasing. 

He’s fairly certain he knows what Greg intends before his lover even drops to his knees and becomes a tuft of silvery hair and eager dark eyes just visible behind the curve of his arse. Despite that, he whimpers again as Greg’s tongue meets his skin, a soft pleading sound from the back of his throat. 

“Nnn- please, love-”

His fingers curl into the sheets as his toes curl into the rug, already anticipating the touch.

“Please- want you-”

*

The pleading is so pretty Greg can hardly resist it. He teases for only a few moments more, giving a gentle bite or two to the pad of Mycroft's arse as he keeps on massaging with his hands. He loves this feeling. _ Pleasure soon. _It seems to prickle in the air around them, softened by their still heavy breath.

He can't make Mycroft wait for long, though - not when he's so in need.

He starts slow and easy, drawing long and lazy stripes all the way down and back again. The glass of water has helped. He's not sure how much saliva he'd now have without it, and after their raw fuck, he wants to keep this wet for Mycroft. His heart settles comfortably as he licks, counting each slow repetition in the back of his mind - _ seven... eight... _

_ Nine... _

He doesn't vary the pattern at all until twenty. His tongue then takes to winding from side to side, painting an idle serpentine path instead of straight. Each time he reaches Mycroft's gaping ring of muscle, he circles around it once, twice, three times - then continues lazily on his way.

It feels as much like giving a massage as it does like sex. His tongue strokes the words _ I love you _with every sweep, never faltering, never skipping. He starts to give Mycroft's hole an extra circle each time he returns to it, until the pattern slowly shifts over nearly ten minutes to become an indulgent and steady swirling, occasional breaking to slide up and down Mycroft's cleft.

*

Mycroft shifts restlessly under Greg’s deliberate attentions. Sometimes he can almost ease into it, lose himself to it, his mind unable to resist looking for the pattern- but then when he does find it, it only takes a few more strokes to make his mind spark a bit, too lost to sensation to hang on to the mathematical scope of it.

He’s trying his best not to fidget too much, of course. To be _ good. _To deserve the enthusiastic tongue-lavishing he is receiving. 

Minutes- hours?- later, he feels delightly pliant in Greg’s hands. Though his muscles are occasionally shuddering, the burn he’d felt earlier is easing, tenderly sated. His hands flex, stretching out into soft fabric, his whimpers having turned to grunted noises of pleasure a while ago.

“Mmm- yes- god-” 

*

_ That's it, sweetheart... rest for me... enjoy... _

This is starting to feel almost meditative. Greg finds himself relaxed and at peace, listening contentedly to his lover's soft sounds as he licks. After the frenzy of fucking, they've drifted into calm.

As he eases into pressing gently inside Mycroft, he tries to maintain that feeling of calm. He varies the pattern of his tongue swirls, blending the sensations together: lapping outside, flicking and fluttering, then coaxing his tongue carefully inside as far as it'll go without resistance. He does this with no thought of hurrying or speeding on. It's just about pleasuring, taking his time to make Mycroft slick and soft. 

It doesn't seem to take long - then, Greg's awareness of the passing minutes has now unspooled happily around him. It doesn't matter how long he's been here. It matters that Mycroft's body is now beautifully open to the gentle lapping of his tongue. He's dipping inside Mycroft over and over, stroking the sensitive opening with all the reverence he'd give any act of worship. He takes Mycroft's hips into his hands to guide any restless shifting, wanting to let Mycroft know he's here - that it's alright.

At last, every movement gentle, he withdraws his inquisitive tongue. He wets around his lover's entrance with a last generous mouthful of saliva, then kisses his way up to Mycroft's tailbone. He rises as quietly to his feet as if Mycroft were asleep.

He wraps a hand around Mycroft's waist, warm and fond.

With the other, he guides the head of his cock into place. 

*

Mycroft gasps. He feels so contented yet stimulated, relaxed but needy. It’s an intriguing dichotomy. Part of him wants to rock back, but he knows forcing matters would be a poor choice. Besides, it’s not what Greg wishes to give him, not after he took so long to ease him open and soothe him.

His hands worry the sheets as he braces, the first gentle press making him moan. He’s slicker now, every part of him yielding over, his cock twitching at the slow stimulation. 

Gregory is so gentle, so slow and methodical in drawing out this bit of pleasure that it uncaps any of the bottled self-control Mycroft had remaining. He murmurs loving praise, unconsciously spreading his legs even wider.

“Yours… all yours, love.”

The image of himself in the mirror is already half-wrecked, ready to be used however Greg wishes.

*

_ God, all mine... relaxed for me. Taking me. _

Greg takes his time. Even with Mycroft this open for him, this softened and slick, he doesn't want to rush. There's something he wants to try - and he's starting as he means to go on. 

He eases into Mycroft's body with all the care and slowness as if this is the first time. When he's fully seated, he waits a few moments and strokes Mycroft's back for him, gently whispering brushes of his fingertips up and down. The whole room feels quiet and warm around them; it's almost a little magical.

He then places a hand either side of Mycroft's shoulders, resting as little of his weight on Mycroft's back as he can.

He starts to move. 

Each stroke is infinitely gentle, easing into Mycroft's body with the greatest care. Though he glides deep, he does it slowly and takes his time to withdraw, fucking Mycroft as if he's precious - as if any sudden slam or undue pressure would break him apart. 

He leans down, quietly, and kisses the back of Mycroft's neck.

"You are my world," he whispers. "All of it. I'll never love anyone or anything more than I love you. I spent my life waiting for you to appear. Nothing in the world matters to me more than you."

*

“Gregory- oh-”

It’s a nearly overwhelming feeling, this slow, burning pleasure rippling through him while something that sounds almost like a marital vow is whispered in his ear. Part of Mycroft wishes he had the coherence in this scenario to respond in kind, but the rest of him whispers that it is alright to simply feel and enjoy.

There will be real vows one day. He can be coherent for those.

“Love you, Gregory- I love you- forever love you-”

Mycroft stays relaxed, noting the feeling of every slow thrust, embracing the little details like the soft stroking of Greg’s fingers. _ Taking such good care of me. _ His legs are still a bit sore from spreading over the chair- other parts of him will feel it more in an hour or two, but it will all be so deliciously worth it. 

Every possible second he spends with Greg, in any way, is always worth it.

“You feel wonderful- my love-”

*

"I love you, too... forever, darlin'. I'll always be here. Right here, to feel good for you." 

Greg strokes his nose behind Mycroft's right ear, resting a little more of his weight on Mycroft's back. The press of their skin feels good; it's enticing, feeling Mycroft's body warm and relaxed beneath him. 

"Lift your head for me, sweetheart?" he whispers. "Want you to see."

He waits until he has Mycroft's eyes in the mirror, his gaze dark and gentle at once. In this moment, he would fight wolves away from Mycroft. He lets it show in his face. The motions of his hips stay easy and fluid, thrusting into his lover's body as he murmurs to him.

"Look at you... look how beautiful you are. You can hardly hold it, can you? What I'm making you feel right now. What I'm doing to you."

He strokes his pointed tongue slowly around the shell of Mycroft's ear.

"And only I get to see this," he whispers. "How gorgeous you are, full of my cock. How it feels. How much you need it."

*

Mycroft moans, unable to hold back at the combination of every single one of his senses merging into a single experience of slow, deep fucking. Seeing himself, hearing Gregory’s voice in his ear, and feeling him within is nearly too much to bear.

_ How am I so lucky? _

He could do this forever. Offer himself to Gregory forever. Sate each other in a million combinations. Lie together. Laugh together. Anything. So long as they are together.

“Yes,” he breathes, face open and loving, gasping with every firm press of his lover’s hips against his arse. His eyes have grown glassy and glazed and flutter shut when Greg tongues over his ear, but when he opens them again he looks at Gregory with the sort of devotion that is usually reserved for painter’s muses.

“Only you. Always you.”

*

"Mm hmm?" 

Greg tilts his head gently, following the path of his tongue with the very edges of his teeth. He's always liked Mycroft's ears. He likes seeing them pinken as they're toyed with. 

"Is there something you'd like, beautiful?" he murmurs. "Something I can do for you?"

This soft, low and almost predatorial voice is becoming easier every time Greg uses it. He's getting a little addicted to what it does to Mycroft. He likes the sound of himself this way - powerful and loving, the man his lover needs. It makes his soul ache, getting to be this person.

And it's not even playing pretend. It's real.

"You've been so good for me," he whispers, "letting me fuck you how I want. Letting me have you." He trails his fingertips down Mycroft's sides, feather-light across his skin. "How can I reward you, darlin'? What would satisfy you right now?"

*

Mycroft is melting.

Very dimly he has the thought that Gregory’s voice ought to be registered as a weapon. That low rumble is doing things to him he has not previously thought possible. Those soft touches feel as though Greg is offering him the world. Mycroft wishes to be _ good _ for him. Perfect. That Gregory is asking what _ he _ would like nearly manages to confound him, caught on the sudden thought that he might pick something Gregory would not want.

Yet. _ “Satisfy _,” he said. 

_ Wants to please me. Please me as I am pleasing him. _

A ripple of happiness glides through him. 

“Stroke me?” he murmurs, eyes hopeful in the mirror. “Let me feel you- inside and out-”

*

Greg's mouth curves. He strokes his cheek against Mycroft's, then lowers his head to press a kiss to the slope of his shoulder.

"Let's lift you up," he murmurs. 

Sex pauses briefly for them to shift on the bed. Greg guides Mycroft to shuffle forwards a little, safe away from the edge, then kneel upright facing the mirror. He takes a moment to pick up the lube from the nightstand - they've been fucking for a while now, and the line between raw pleasure and injury is whisper-thin. It's a line Greg's not willing to cross. 

He kneels right behind Mycroft and gathers an arm around his torso, as gentle and protective as if this is just a hug. His lubed fingers slide down the cleft of Mycroft's arse. They find his entrance and rub, spreading the gel gently. 

Greg eases himself closer, encouraging Mycroft to part his legs a little; he guides his own cock to meet his fingers.

When he's buried back inside, he wraps both arms around Mycroft from behind. One hand strokes up, splayed fingers stroking across his heart and laying flat. The other wanders down his body, fingers still glossy with lube. They curl around his cock. With a snug grip, they coat him in the gel; the sound is slick and wet in the otherwise silent room. 

"Mm hmm?" Greg hums, regarding Mycroft over his shoulder in the mirror. He slips his tongue behind Mycroft's ear. "Like this?"

*

“Oh god yes.”

The addition of lube shifts things in more ways than one. With Greg’s hand gliding over his cock, Mycroft almost feels dizzy with pleasure as he’s filled again, this time with slick ease. He’ll still be sore tomorrow, but he doesn’t think he’ll mind all that much, not when Gregory treats him so tenderly.

The mirror amplifies everything. Mycroft cannot see himself being penetrated, but he knows, knows the flush in his cheeks and blissful look in his eyes is all down to the man at his back.

His own hands settle behind him, on the upper ranges of Gregory’s thighs, his back just a bit arched so he can lean against Greg’s broad chest. It always feels so safe and comforting there, close to his lover’s heart. Like a shield he would trust with his life. That he would trust with everything.

Tilting his head to allow Gregory better access to his ear and throat, Mycroft moans from the back of his throat.

“Perfect- you are perfect-”

*

Greg helps himself to the offered skin with enthusiasm, brushing his tongue along Mycroft's jaw and then longingly down his neck.

_ "We _are perfect," he breathes, tightening his grip on Mycroft's cock. He begins to move again, the same deep and steady thrusts as before. Each bump of his hips rocks Mycroft forwards into the stroking of his hand; his securing arm keeps Mycroft held upright against his chest. "We're perfect, love. We belong to each other."

Mycroft feels so tight this way. The slick of lube is gorgeously satisfying, and the image laid out in the mirror for Greg to enjoy will never completely leave his memory. 

Every time he sees Abbey's photos, he'll be thinking of this moment. 

He'll be thinking about how it felt to fuck Mycroft hard and then gentle, fast and then slow - and now the perfect balance - deep and rhythmic, over and over, not quick enough to rush the pleasure but not slow enough to dampen the need to come.

As he thrusts into Mycroft's body, working his lover's cock in time with his hand, Greg feels his breath roughen. It's getting harder to suppress his own responses; his balls feel like they're aching, pleading with him to fuck and chase and find relief. 

He bites gently into the crook of Mycroft's neck, ripples of pleasure now rolling through his abdomen.

"Good, beautiful?"

*

“Yes- yes- fuck-”

Mycroft is watching. Watching and feeling. The gentle pull of teeth at his neck makes him moan, the image of Gregory doing it even more so.

_ Lord, he’s so beautiful. So beautiful. _

This could be the moment Gregory announces he’s actually some sort of vampire and sinks his fangs in, and Mycroft is fairly certain he would perish happily watching that in the mirror too.

Slowly, steadily, specifics and thoughts vanish into the haze of it all. He’s merely_ being _, merely experiencing. 

One of Mycroft’s hand stretches up and back, finding Gregory’s hair and arching his own body further. It’s decadent to be fucked on both sides, the rhythm of it washing over Mycroft’s thoughts and making it difficult for him to conjure anything rational over the sparking, white glow of sheer pleasure.

He’s murmuring praise, little of it coherent, pleading for _ more _ without regard for what more is. 

“Please- please- yours-”

*

There comes a point with Mycroft's fingers carding through his hair where Greg realises that change - if it's coming - must come now. Their bodies are falling into the urgent, hypnotic kind of rhythm where orgasm can arrive very quickly out of nowhere. If they're going to edge things, shift positions and keep going, this is the last point it could happen.

But Mycroft's sounds are so beautiful - and it feels so bloody good to be begged. 

He loves looking after Mycroft in this headspace, when he's grown almost incoherent. All he seems to want is the pleasure he's already getting. Greg's natural urge to _ give _ makes him crave intimate moments just like this, and he wants Mycroft to have this. He can't bring himself to stop.

Instead he concentrates on making this good, letting the motions of his hand and his hips blend into one perfectly fluid motion. Mycroft seems almost to become a part of Greg's body, or he a part of Mycroft's, their sex seamless and smooth as they fuck into each other over and over. 

_ No change, _ he thinks, panting even in his thoughts now. Tight groans wrench from his throat on each urgent thrust. _ Just this. Just fucking. Just us, just like this, just... _

Mycroft looks so good in the mirror. He's so beautiful, so needy, and all the pleasure in his face is Greg's pleasure. 

Greg shudders with it, overcome.

_ More for you, darlin'. More and more. All for you, all of it. _

"Gonna let go for me, sweetheart?" he breathes against Mycroft's neck, fisting his cock now hard and fast. "Gonna let yourself go and come to pieces for me? I wanna hear you..." 

*

The pressure has built in Mycroft so slowly that he’s scarcely noticed it. His pants are blended with Greg’s, a harmony of breath and groans and cries and the occasional low, soft, pleaded word. It’s only as the pace of Greg’s strokes picks up that he realizes how close he is, teetering just on the edge.

“Yes,” he breathes, over and over, interspersed with Greg’s name, and begging pleas as the crest draws nearer.

_ Want to come. _

_ Want to please you. _

_ Hear me, hear me- _

He grows louder, shouting when it finally takes him in earnest. His hands tighten unbidden where they are, one clinging to Gregory’s thigh and one wrapping in silvery hair. 

Although Mycroft cannot keep his eyes open, his head tossed back and face contorted with pleasure, he does make a pretty image when he finally spills over his lover’s hand. Every inch of flesh is tinged pink with a glowing flush, except the places where the color has deepened from the attentions of Greg’s teeth. His lips are just parted as the last guttural sounds rip out of him, all the ones that make sense repetitions of Greg’s name.

“Greg- Greg- _ Greg-” _

*

_ If I could photograph you like this. _

It's not possible; there's no way Greg would let someone else in the room to see this moment. He doesn't want to share it. It's selfish, he knows it, and he doesn't care. He went through hell with a psychotic ex, ending up convinced he was a broken bag of bones nobody could ever want. Now his lover comes for him like _ this, _falls apart in his arms and moans his name like it's a prayer, and he couldn't bear to allow someone else to enjoy this sight. Mycroft belongs to him and these moments are as sacred as ritual.

_ If only I could catch them with a blink, _ he thinks, somewhere in the part of his mind still capable of thought. _ If only I could keep them, hold onto them... _

But that's not the point, he realises. 

The point is to help Mycroft come like this time after time, over and over. This moment couldn't be immortalised in a frame. There's no way he could capture how it feels to have Mycroft convulsing in his arms, flushing pink as he comes across Greg's fingers. A photograph wouldn't even come close.

The rush of love rolls across Greg's senses as he buries himself deep in Mycroft's body, holds onto him tightly and lets go. He's aware in the back of his mind that his own climax is quieter than Mycroft's, his sounds much lower and softer - but they're perfect together. Their voices blur, their hearts pounding as one, and for just a few moments the barrier of their skin seems to mean very little. It feels like they're a single being - inseparable. 

As the tumult begins to subside, Greg finds himself panting against his lover's shoulder. He nuzzles longingly into Mycroft's neck; every atom of his being feels like it's shining.

"Darlin'?" he whispers. His arms tighten. "You alright, sweetheart?"

*

“Mmmm.” Mycroft’s mind is still hazy, still pleasantly _ off, _ but he still nods an affirmation. His fingers in Greg’s hair turn to petting, stroking, some part of him still seeking out the simple joys of sensation. It only ceases when his arm protests, finally registering the soreness of a muscle clenched under the influence of hormonal pleasure not to feel much pain until after.

Other parts of him are sore as well, which is not unexpected. Some caution may need to be exercised when sitting. His lips twitch into a smile. He will never be displeased by being able to feel Gregory the next day, and the day after. 

He leans back, planning to shift his weight more into Gregory’s chest, but his legs lodge their own series of complaints. Mycroft sighs that his body will not let him be more content, fingertips stroking along Greg’s thigh, as he licks his lips and finds his voice.

“Yes, lovely. Shall we lie down a bit?”

He lets out a different sort of sigh as Gregory relinquishes his sheath, the ache of it both a desire on the part of his heart to be so joined forever, and a desire on the part of his body for an immediate nap.

His fingers reach up, brushing over the mark on his neck that is sure to purple by morning. A slow smile crosses his lips. “I maintain that I do enjoy it when you release your hellion side in earnest.”

*

"Learned from the best," Greg murmurs, his eyes glittering. As he lays down, all the weight from his body seems to melt into the bed. He groans faintly, tipping his head back against the pillow. "Fuck me up..."

The cotton feels cool and clean against his neck; his heart's still banging as if he's just run several miles. 

"C'mere," he says softly. He gathers Mycroft against his chest, stroking through his hair as he settles. "Just to warn you, m'gonna be asleep in about a minute... holy _ shit, _ that was amazing..."

*

Mycroft uses the last of his energy to grab the mirror and put it on the floor against the nightstand. “Mmm. Quite amazing.” He curls into Greg’s chest as though he intends to nest there permanently, the heat and scent and feel all combining to make up something that he mind now identifies as _ home. _

They can tidy up later. Worry about food later. 

For now this is more than enough.

“Enjoy your sleep, lovely,” he murmurs as his own eyes close.

“I shall see you in my dreams.”


	13. Chapter 13

The plan is there, ready formed in Greg's mind, when he wakes up the next morning. 

Step one, getting Mycroft into the shower, goes fairly smoothly. He has to resist Mycroft's attempts to coax him into the shower as well. It aches to say no to his lover, even just this once, but the quicker he gets his plan into action, the better. 

Protesting his empty stomach, and promising he'll be back upstairs with breakfast soon, Greg sees Mycroft into the bathroom with a sly squeeze of his arse and a fond kiss, then pulls on his dressing gown and quickly heads downstairs.

He waits until he can hear the heating system kicking in. He needs to be certain Mycroft will stay occupied for the next few minutes, with no risk of over-hearing. For extra insurance, he throws one of Mycroft's prepared smoothie bags into the blender and adds two additional handfuls of ice, then sets it to ultra-smooth, knowing it will buy him a couple more minutes—and a little more cover with the noise.

Greg then slips his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, relieved to see on the lockscreen that it's not too early. She'll be up.

And he needs her.

He scrolls through his contacts for her number, leaning against the fridge, and hits call. He holds the phone to his ear, cupping the bottom of it with his hand to shield it from the roar of the blender. 

Waiting for her to answer is almost painful.

_ Please pick up. Please. I hate being sneaky.  _

*

“Just a  _ few _ Dreamies, love. There you are. Good girl.” Anthea surveys the cat toys- nudging a few closer to Marmalade’s bed. “Alright, Auntie Anthea will be back later. Be good, sweetness, yes?”

Marmalade churrs at her, tail flicking happily as she nibbles her treats. 

Anthea heads down the stairs, pulling out the phone she can feel vibrating in her pocket as she loops around Mycroft’s home to the parking behind it and her waiting Aston Martin. She’s grown used to getting even more calls than normal, though acquiring her own assistant has alleviated some of it. They’ll need to reorganize again when Mycroft returns, but for now the work goes on.

The name on the caller ID is far more interesting than the average work call, however. It must be social- not of her security alerts for the Lake District have been tripped, and they’d worked particularly hard to ensure no one who might be inclined to blab knows where Mycroft is. 

“Greg, you know if you’ve run out of his favorite oatmeal there is a store in town that carries it.”

*

"We brought two bags," Greg says, over the audible frenzied whirring of a blender set to high. "I didn't wanna take the risk. That's not why I'm calling."

He takes a breath.  _ Christ, here it comes. _

"I need your help with something. It's... okay, it's maybe personal. I'd figure something out myself but frankly I'm not that bright. He'll see through it in a second. I've got more chance of pulling this off if I involve you."

*

“...alright.” Anthea smiles. The man is not doing a thing to alleviate suspicion, though she can keep it to herself what exactly she thinks he might be up to.

Besides, it’s not as though Greg is in any danger of suddenly turning out to be some sort of foreign agent, leading Mycroft into a nefarious trap.

“What do you need, Greg?”

*

"I need you to keep him busy," Greg says, biting the corner of his lip. "For an hour or so. Two, if you can manage it. I mean  _ properly _ busy. Busy so he won't notice I'm gone. I don't know what sort of thing, but... some kind of work emergency? Not an emergency-emergency, just..."

Realising this is starting to sound suspicious as hell, he takes another big breath. 

"O-Okay. Starting at the beginning. Myc and I have been talking, and we've come to some realisations about stuff. About the future. And there's no reason to wait, and... well, it's amazing here, and god knows when we'll next have two uninterrupted weeks to celebrate something."

He glances at the blender, watching the larger chunks of ice still whizzing and crunching around the blades.

"There's... a jeweller. In the village. I know you're really busy with him away. But I can work around you—whenever you've got time—"

*

“Mmmhm.” 

Anthea briefly mutes her end of the line so she can let out a small shriek of delight in the privacy of her car. Certainly, it might seem fast to some people, but she’s been convinced this would be an eventuality for quite a while. One only has to look at them to realize how absurdly in love with each other they are. 

She clears her throat, unmuting again with one careful click.

“Would you prefer something that would keep him in the office for a bit, or might it be easier if I arrange to recall him to London for a day and keep him fully out of your hair? The drive is long, but if I can find a sufficient justification- and there is  _ always _ something- I may be able to arrange faster transit.”

*

Greg's heart contracts. With a whole day, he'd definitely be able to get hold of a ring—maybe even drive to a nearby city, if the jeweller in the village doesn't have something just perfect. He could make sure he had everything hidden and safe by the time Mycroft got back.

It would be a whole day lost from their holiday, but the last thing he wants is to rush this. He risks triggering very reasonable suspicions that he's up to something, and in the worst case scenario, having to present an engagement ring just to prove he's not hiding some darker secret.

_ It's one day. Only one day. It'll be fine. _

_ And he could drop in and see Marmalade, check she's alright. _

"Okay," he says. He breathes in, aware he's now shaking a little. "If that's not a major problem, that'd be great."

He could even have the house ready, he thinks. If the jewellers have the right ring, after all, there'd be no point carrying it around in his pocket for days. He could make a nice dinner, light candles ready for when Mycroft gets back. 

Then...

_ Jesus.  _

"Is there a day that works for you? So I can be ready."  _ Maybe ring them in advance. Tell them his size.  _ "M'sorry if this is a nightmare."

*

It takes a few slow breaths to ensure Anthea does not begin to vibrate in the car.  _ He’s ready. He’d do it today if he could. _

She has watched Mycroft for years, through everything his brother has put him through. Everything their work has put him through. She’s never seen him so settled. Greg makes him happy. Joyously, endlessly happy. 

Anthea will do anything in her power to ensure that happiness is permanent. It’s an honor to be included in it at all.

“Hm.” She does the mental on what pieces are in play at the moment- if she has to distract Mycroft, she is absolutely going to make use of his presence for something worthwhile.  _ Two birds. _ Plus, he’d realize in an instant if she called him down for something she ought to be able to handle.

“Two or three days from now? There are some negotiations I can have him consult on- they’ll be difficult either way so he should be fully engaged for a few hours, at least.”

*

"Sure." 

_ Oh. Jesus. Three days from now, we might be engaged. My fiance.  _

"Sure, that sounds good."

_ He'll say yes, won't he? _

"I mean, so long as that suits you—"

_ Christ, what if he doesn't? _

"—and it's not, y'know—obvious it's a—"

_ Of course he'll say yes. It's fine. It'll be fine. _

"—r-right. Thanks, Anthea. I'm sorry if you get grief for it. I'll tell him, after. Make sure he knows it was me." Glancing across at the blender, Greg realises it's reaching the end of its run. He needs to wrap this up and calm down before he goes back upstairs. "Thanks. I mean it. And I owe you one—a massive one—seriously, if there's a favour I can ever do you? Anything in this world? Tell me and I'll do it. No questions asked."

*

Anthea chuckles. “I trust you realize that’s a dangerous thing to offer, Greg.” She turns the key in the ignition and the engine hums. Today is an exciting day- a day for fast driving and a bit of wind in her hair.

“Just remember to breathe, and try and behave normally. Alright? I’ll text you when I have things in order- it will be a photo of Marmalade and I’ll mention Dreamies in the caption.”

_ Try and behave normally. Hah. _ She’ll be lucky if  _ she _ can behave normally when she calls Mycroft to summon him.

“Good luck!”

*

Greg grins nervously, looking down at his bare feet on the kitchen floor.  _ First person who knows. Christ. _

"Thanks," he says again. "Appreciate it. See you soon."

He hangs up the call just as the blender comes to a stop. His phone slips away into his pocket and he concentrates on getting breakfast together, letting the normality of it all brush the conversation out of his mind. There's nothing to do now but wait—wait, and let Anthea work her magic.

By the time Mycroft emerges from the bathroom, Greg is back upstairs in bed with coffee and the paper. Mycroft's smoothie and a plate of wholemeal toast are sitting neatly on a tray atop the covers, just like at home. 

Greg looks up from the paper with a smile, taking a sip of coffee. His eyes sparkle over the top of his reading glasses.

"Did I miss a nice shower?" he asks.

*

“Mm. Very.”

Mycroft imagines there is still steam rolling off his skin. He let the water run hot and melted into it, soothing the muscles that keep attempting to tell him he is getting a bit too old to be engaged in such vigorous activity.

The image on the bed makes him smile, of course. “Gregory, you are spoiling me.” Mycroft slips back across the covers to press a kiss to his lover’s cheek. 

_ And I might have this every day.  _

He finishes his breakfast slowly, reading snippets of the paper over Greg’s shoulder.  _ Politics and protest. Violence. _ All things he has not thought about since their arrival.

_ Although… hm. _

A plan begins to form in his mind, though he is forced to wait until the late afternoon to enact it. Fortunately Gregory is determined to cook a full dinner for him, so Mycroft has slipped outside on the pretense of collecting a few fresh flowers for the table.

His phone is to his ear as soon as he clears the sightlines from the kitchen windows.

“Anthea- I trust I am not interrupting?”

*

“Ah- no. Between crises at the moment, by which I mean holding hands with certain foreign powers who enjoy throwing tantrums and attempting to remind them that they are in fact governments and not children.”

She reaches her office and shuts the door, sitting down and sliding her heels off to give her feet a good wiggle.

“But you are on holiday and not meant to be thinking of any of that. Why are you calling?”

_ Don’t have already worked out Greg’s plans, please. Not when I’ve already picked out what dress I want to wear to the ceremony. _

*

“I, ah. Well. I am wondering if you would assist me with a personal matter.” Mycroft swallows, suddenly nervous. Why is he nervous? It feels more serious to say it aloud, somehow, and not simply in the quiet recesses of his mind.

“I have- there is something I should like to purchase for Gregory, as a surprise, and I would prefer to carry out such a task in London, with shops I am familiar with.”

He inhales. She’s not an idiot. She’ll know. 

_ Why is my heart racing? _

“At any rate- might you be able to arrange something, an ostensible work emergency? Just for a few hours, mind.”

*

It is only with the greatest professionalism that Anthea refrains from screaming aloud. Instead it forms a persistent, excitable whir in the back of her head. 

She clears her throat. 

“Yes. I’m sure I can think of something. How does… two or three days from now sound? I can send the helicopter- for speed and veracity, of course.”

“Sensible.” Mycroft smiles. “What would I do without you?”

Quite contented, he happily returns to Gregory with a full bouquet of wildflowers, with no idea that in London Anthea is white-knuckling her desk in order to keep from excited squeaking. 

“Oh my actual god.”

“Ma’am?” Petra, her new assistant, peeks through the door. “Are you… is everything alright?”

“It’s fine. Brilliant, actually. Finish your reports and you can take off early.” Anthea leans back in her chair as the door closes again, pulling her phone out. She’s going to absolutely burst, attempting to keep this to herself. Government secrets cannot hold a candle to it- those are all terribly boring, anyway. But this may actually kill her.

“Actually, Petra?”

The door opens again. “Ma’am?”

“Put it on your schedule for tomorrow to make arrangements for the helicopter. Mr. Holmes needs to pay us a brief visit.”

Petra looks a bit nervous at the implication. “To us, ma’am?”

Anthea smiles. “Not exactly.”

*

_ Something special.  _

Greg flips through recipes on his phone for almost fifteen minutes before he finds something that feels right. 

_ Like I'm proposing tonight,  _ he thinks, giddy with it and nervous, unsure how he's going to cope in this state for three whole days. He's going to be a wreck by the time he actually has the ring in his pocket. He takes two lamb rumps from the fridge, sits them on a plate on the side and starts putting together a spice mix to coat them with, letting the quiet combining of ingredients settle him.  _ As much as I ever will settle. _

While the lamb has five minutes to sizzle in a pan, he chops banana shallots. They go into the oven with the lamb, and he keeps himself busy washing new potatoes that probably don't need it. When they're boiling, he scrolls through nonsense on his phone.

He can't keep the thoughts out of his head, nor the lump from his throat.

_ Buying a ring. Giving it to you. Asking you please—please, god, please—marry me and be with me and let it be for good. _

When the potatoes are soft, he crushes them gently and adds some spring onions and lemon zest. The lamb has turned out well. The recipe was right—this doesn't take long. He stirs a tablespoon of capers, some mint juice and a little olive oil into the lamb juice, building them up into a dressing.

He's slicing the lamb just as Mycroft arrives with wildflowers for the table. 

The sight of them squeezes his heart so hard it hurts. 

_ Like it's special,  _ he thinks. _ Like you know.  _ It's so hard not to just lay the lamb aside, pull Mycroft close to him and ask him right this second now, make it real. Every minute's wait is going to be torture.

Somehow he'll have to be normal, though. 

The last thing he wants in the world is to spoil that moment. Mycroft deserves to be asked properly, down on one knee, by a man who loves him enough to be brave—not just like this, blurted out in nerves. 

As he brings their plates of lamb to the table, along with a bowl of salted tomato salad, Greg lets the love and attention he's put into the food say what he can't right now.  _ I want to provide for you, care for you. Sustain you. All your life. _

He puts Mycroft's plate down in front of him and gently kisses the top of his head.

His eyes close for a moment.

"Hope it's alright, love," he murmurs.

*

_ Of course it is. You made it. _

While Gregory is indeed an excellent cook, that has nothing to do with it- it’s the sheer force of love behind it that Mycroft adores. He could serve a single unbuttered baked potato at this point and Mycroft would be equally happy. 

He should have started looking for rings before they left.

There’s a difference, though, between knowing he wished to be married to Greg and knowing that he must imminently propose. Mycroft had thought, and perhaps it is the influence of the romantic relationships in the literature he leans toward, that the process would take longer. Besides, they are in love, must it take a ring to show that? He’d never thought he would answer  _ yes _ so firmly.

_ Yes, _ Gregory deserves a ring. He deserves a husband that loves him and cares for him and offers him the world. Occasionally Mycroft wishes he had a more domestic skill set to offer, as Gregory has with cooking, but he can ensure Gregory is as financially comfortable as he might ever like to be. 

Mycroft smiles softly at his partner. “It looks wonderful.”  _ And I love you, you brilliant, gorgeous man. _ “You’re going to have to tell me your culinary secrets one day, you realize, so I can assist you with more than just dicing things.”

*

Greg grins, nuzzling fondly at Mycroft's hairline, dishevelling that little curl he loves with the tip of his nose.

"Sorry, gorgeous," he says. "Can't risk making myself obsolete. You'll have to carry on dicing things and inspiring me."

He steps away from Mycroft only with reluctance, settles in his own chair and takes a generous serving of tomato salad for his plate, hoping this has turned out as good as it smells. Something about eating together is settling.  _ A normal day,  _ he tells himself.  _ A normal evening ahead. _

"D'you fancy a wander down to the lake after dinner?" he says, smiling across the table. "Try and catch the sunset, maybe."

*

“A romantic notion, darling. Yes, that sounds lovely.”

Mycroft takes what is perhaps a more generous portion of meat than usual, allowing that he needs to protein to make up for the increase in exertion brought on by their sexual exploits. It tastes exquisite, as can only be expected. It’s still a wonder to him that Gregory pursued a career in law enforcement rather than as an internationally acclaimed chef.

Dining is interspersed with several companionable silences, and Mycroft cannot help but enjoy it as they both keep smiling at each other over their food, simply happy to be together. His toes wander across once or twice to rest on Greg’s as well.

_ Let us be ridiculously in love. Let us be happy. _

“Shall we have pudding after our walk, lovely?”

*

"Sounds good," Greg says, still smiling as he clears the plates to the sink. "We could put a film on, if you like... get cosy in the lounge with a bowl of something..."

It feels like it might be the sort of evening where they drink tea instead of wine. If they were at home, Marmalade would be laid on them asleep, radiating the sort of happiness only a comfortable cat can produce.  _ She'd be so happy, if she knew.  _

_ Then, maybe she always did know.  _

It's warm enough outside for Greg to leave his coat by the door, comfortable in just his jumper. They're not going far. With any luck, the fresh air might wake him up a little after dinner. A deep gold light has settled across the front of the house, gleaming in all the windows. It'll look amazing on the lake - molten fire.

Greg's hand steals into Mycroft's as soon as they set off, nesting their fingers together in a ball.

"Did you have anything particular in mind for pudding? Finish off some ice cream, maybe?"

*

“Mmm. You do keep encouraging my enjoyment of fudge… and I believe there is enough left to share.”

In a way it will be nice to spend an evening outside of the bedroom, doing the sort of things couples do when they aren’t spending every waking moment attempting to shag each other senseless. Comfortable evenings like that are just as worthwhile, especially when one or the other of them gets too comfortable and attempts to fall asleep on the couch. There’s a certain sort of sleepy love that only arises when they’re walking half-asleep up the stairs and toppling in to bed to curl into one another.

The movie should be something soft. Mycroft is not in the mood for explosions. He wants more of this sunset, more of the gold light highlighting each shade of brown in Gregory’s eyes. 

Mycroft tucks closer to his lover.

“I do wish we had more sunsets like this in London. Not that either of us are free from work early enough to appreciate them.”

*

Greg smiles, wrapping his arm around Mycroft as they walk. If he was an inch or two taller, they could maybe stroll and hug like this more easily—it wouldn't be the same, though. He likes the gentle bump every other step. He likes that they have to go slowly.

"Maybe we need to get away more," he says, inhaling it. "Weekends now and then... y'know? Get some real air in our lungs..."

_ Retire some day. You and me.  _

_ Every single sunset, then.  _

Their footsteps seem soft upon the ground. It feels somehow like they're just where they're meant to be this moment—walking together in the evening air, a single silhouette thrown long across the grass. Nobody in the world knows they're exactly here right now. They're beautifully, gently alone.

The moment feels so private, so safe, that it rises an ache in Greg's chest. 

"Bet the Major Crime team up here aren't too taxed," he says, smiling as he casts a sly glance sideways at his lover. "Imagine how bored and fat I'd get, slumped at my desk all week. You'd be orchestrating crimes just to stop me going mental."

*

“Planning your retirement already, lovely? Shall I get you a fishing pole and a rowboat for your birthday?”

Mycroft smiles and rests his head on Greg’s shoulder for a moment- he cannot do it for long, not while trying to walk- and turns in to press a kiss against his cheek. 

“I could acquire us a cabin somewhere. Something small and private. Just ours. All my crimes might be committed there, for your amusement.”

It could be a shack, and as long as Gregory is in it, Mycroft would be happy. The game of intrigue and intelligence Mycroft calls work is not easy to retire from, however. Nothing known can ever be deleted from a mind- except, of course, by his own very obstinate brother. He’d made his own choice to wade into that realm long ago, heedless of the consequences. 

“I can’t imagine you leaving Scotland Yard, Gregory. Though it may be the plot of six of the last television dramas I’ve seen advertised- ‘handsome city cop moves to dismal rural town and suddenly half the town is murdered.’ Statistics would say the newly moved officer of the law  _ is _ the killer, but- wouldn’t you miss the city, lovely?”

*

Greg finds himself smiling, pulling his lip between his teeth. 

"Some bits," he admits. "Things like... heading out somewhere nice for dinner. Just deciding that morning, making a reservation. You can't get that everywhere. London seemed like a whole other world when I first moved. Being a copper there... well, you never doubt that you're needed. Put it that way. I guess it's good to feel useful."

He draws a breath, unable to keep the second half to himself.

"But... I don't know, I can feel it shifting sometimes. I'm not saying I want to be put out to pasture yet. I'm saying... maybe ten years from now, I don't know if 'feeling useful' will be enough. You see a lot, working CID. It builds up. I like peaceful places more than I used to. I... feel a need to pull the peace into my bones, almost. Hold onto it. Like I'll need it."

Unsure if he's making sense, he glances up at his lover with a nervous smile. His arm tightens gently around Mycroft's waist.

"It helps," he says, "coming home to you and Marmalade. I'll be happy at work much longer, now I've got you."

*

“Yes, I suppose I feel something of the same… contentment.”

Occasionally Mycroft forgets that Gregory is the one more ‘in the field’, more or less. He can arrange everything from an ivory tower of surveillance and data, distanced from the threats he faces, however grave they might be. He doesn’t need to wade into the blood and the consequences and the victims with the closeness that Gregory must.

He leans closer again, brushing his nose against Greg’s cheek, his lips following.

“I like that idea. Stockpiling peace inside oneself to be expended in times of strife…. That may work well in a book.”

Mycroft will need to make a note when they get back in the house. He can picture it already- them, a bit older, Greg friendly with the entire village, popping round to the grocery every day to work on some new ingenious recipe while Mycroft lingers in the realms of fantasy and sculpting worlds from words. 

Perhaps he’ll help Gregory write a cookbook.

He kisses Greg’s cheek again, his eyes glittering in the red-gold light as he pulls back.

“Ten years seems reasonable.”

*

Greg brings them to a natural pause, turning to face his lover in the evening light. He takes Mycroft's face into his hands; he rubs their noses together gently, their foreheads resting.

"Who knows?" he says, as a small smile curves his mouth. "A holiday now and then, keep an eye on my blood pressure, and I might be alright to work for longer. We'll see."

Gently he releases Mycroft's face. His arms instead slip around his lover's waist, gathering him close in a hug.

"So long as there's you," he says, resting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder. His eyes close with the quiet rush of comfort. "Rather work 'til I'm eighty, coming home every night to you, than retire right now and go off somewhere alone. I couldn't cope with that. Life wouldn't be worth living."

*

“Eighty? There shall be no crime left under such a steady hand.”

The light shifts further red, one last burst of gold heralding the last of the day’s brightness. Mycroft’s lips brush Greg’s ear as he speaks, his arms wrapping over his lover’s soft jumper.

“I shall be there. Whether either of us can actually manage retiring, and whether or not we are in London. Whence you go, so shall I.”

One hand slips up, stroking through Greg’s hair. The gloaming light brings out the few traces of what was a deep brunette that linger among the silver.  _ Red. A trace of red in the ring, perhaps. _

If he wakes before Gregory, as he often does, he must do a bit of browsing. 

“We’ll see what we can do in the meantime about your blood pressure.”

*

_ So good to talk like this. _

Like it's obvious; like it's just natural. Like there's no question.

For a moment, a shadow of Greg's marriage flits across his mind. It seems so long ago now, so remote, that it feels almost like a film he once watched—like it all happened to someone else. At the time, he hadn't realised he was living through constant and crippling insecurity. He hadn't been able to rest even a gram of his emotional weight on any part of that bond. He could assume nothing, hope for nothing, trust nothing, and he'd experienced it all as so normal.

Now he gets to be cuddled as the sun sets, talking softly about retirement in utter certainty they'll be together, and they'll be safe, and they'll be happy. 

It's enough to close up his throat for a few moments, briefly overcome. These rushes of emotion don't come as often anymore. When they do, they're just as strong as they ever were. His hands tighten quietly on Mycroft's back; he nuzzles into the petting of his hair.

When he finds the room in his throat to speak again, it's with a tiny shiver and a playful note.

"High blood pressure's caused by stress," he says. "Wine and bacon sandwiches help me de-stress. Science, love. I don't make the rules."

*

“Mm. How fortunate you are familiar with the medicinal properties of bacon.”

Mycroft can feel the slight shift in Greg’s posture, but he knows he doesn’t need to press. He’s there, and he’s happy to be there, whether the subtle change is due to sadness at the thought of aging or simply joy that they shall be doing so together.

He keeps stroking Greg’s hair until his lover’s breathing steadies.  _ My husband. Soon, my husband. _

If he is up tonight, sneaking glances on his phone of rings in platinum and palladium, well, it will be worth the lost sleep. 

“Shall we go to the water, darling, before it’s too dark to see?” His lips find Greg’s forehead. “We can watch the light change and then ensure you have a nice relaxing dessert.”

As they walk, a pair of birds erupts from the brush, two streaks of dark against a dimming sky. Mycroft feels a sense of kinship with them, flying off together wherever they’d like.  _ That shall be us every holiday, my love. And no one shall stop us. _

“Come with me,” he murmurs, taking Greg’s hand. “And you can work out how you can make bacon and wine into pudding before we return to the house. For the benefit of your health, of course.”


	14. Chapter 14

Looking back in years to come, Greg will always be amazed that the next three days pass so easily. The truth is that the hours roll happily from one into another, mornings into afternoons and evenings with nothing to do but enjoy their time together. His nervousness, when it comes, quickly vanishes in the light of his lover. 

He doesn't even spend that much time thinking of the subterfuge to come. 

For now, everything is in Anthea's hands. All Greg has to do is wait to watch Mycroft fly off in a helicopter—and until that moment, there's no reason not to make the most of their holiday.

The evening before, it's almost funny to realise he's actually a little sad. Tomorrow will be the first time in over a week that he's been away from Mycroft for more than a few minutes. Even though he'll spend it making arrangements to spend the rest of their lives together, he can feel something in him pining quietly already.

The stress of finding the right ring, in the right size, then concealing it somewhere in the house it won't be accidentally stumbled across, probably won't leave much time for missing Mycroft.

All the same, it'll be odd to kiss him goodbye.

With this in mind, Greg decides to put some creativity into dinner. While Mycroft is busy in the study upstairs, running through preparations for tomorrow with Anthea, Greg steps out into the house's pretty garden and lays a picnic blanket on the grass, weighting it with heavy glass candles and a bottle of decent white wine. He cooks a variety of small things they can eat with their fingers, including a batch of caramel blondies, cut into tiny squares so Mycroft can indulge without guilt. The food all gets wrapped in tinfoil or cloth, then nestled safe in a wicker basket Greg found in the pantry.

By the time he hears the study door open, he has everything ready.

He appears at the foot of the stairs just as Mycroft begins to come down them, grinning and sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"All okay?" he says, waiting for his lover with a hopeful look—a look that says,  _ I've done something and I hope you like it.  _ "Dinner's ready."

*

Mycroft schools his face into something that looks closer to  _ I have been doing business _ seriousness and not  _ I have been ensuring the options for your engagement ring are in stock and undeniably perfect  _ before leaving the study _ .  _ He has a fairly good idea of which he will be choosing, but he still wants to see it in person first. It must speak Gregory’s name to him, and honor the man Mycroft wishes to spend the rest of his life with.

First, however, he must make it through dinner without dropping any hints of his plans.

“Anthea has everything in hand for tonight, my love. I shan’t need to speak with her again until the morning.” Gregory is looking handsome- as he always does, of course, but there’s something about that grin and those perfectly fitted jeans that Mycroft always finds additionally appealing. “You look pleased, Gregory. Have you invented another culinary masterpiece?”

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, unable to resist wrapping Gregory up in his arms and pulling him in for a kiss.

_ Soon, my love. _

It does not escape him, however, that there is no food visible in the kitchen or the dining room, though there is a conspicuous wicker basket. “Ah. Are we going on a picnic?”

*

"Not going far," Greg promises, glowing a little as he slides his arms around Mycroft's waist. It's easy to lift Mycroft from the bottom step of the stairs like this, carrying him a short way down the hall with the same puppyish grin. "There's a chance I've been soppy. Just to warn you."

As they step from the kitchen into the garden, the scene awaits them—and Greg feels almost guilty at how magical it looks. Tonight's glorious pink and gold sunset is doing all of the work for him. His candles are just starting to glow, twinkling softly around the edge of their picnic blanket, and the wine is already poured. It's a warm night; they'll be able to sit after dark. Spare blankets in the basket will keep them cosy if needed.

As Greg puts down the basket, opening the lid to reveal various foil-wrapped containers, another hopeful look comes Mycroft's way. 

"I made blondies for dessert. Bit more sea salt in the caramel this time—I think it's paid off."

*

“Gregory!” Mycroft laughingly protests as Greg picks him up. It isn’t much of one- he  _ loves _ that Greg can simply haul him up when he feels so inclined, even if he’s set down again before they reach the door.

“I’m sure soppy is- oh-”

The sight is so gorgeous that it nearly takes his breath. “Gregory, this is  _ lovely-” _

The yard has never looked so pretty, even when Mycroft looked on it with the more imaginative eyes of a child. For a brief moment he’s very nearly overcome by the gesture, his eyes glittering when he look to his love.

“Picnic tapas and blondies.” He shakes his head, quietly smiling as he sits on the blanket, wondering if anyone in this house has ever bothered to use it before or if it’s simply there for the sake of aesthetics. “Remind me what I did to deserve your wonderful, thoughtful mind in my life?”

*

Beaming, Greg settles beside Mycroft on the blanket. 

"You know it's a long list, don't you?" he says, as he reaches into the picnic basket. "If I had the time to do this everyday at home, I would. You're wonderful. I like getting the chance to tell you."

He starts setting out containers, peeling back the foil on each one to give a glimpse of its contents. He knows he's made too much. Picnics are always better with too much food, though—and Mycroft can have some to take with him to London. Greg doubts somehow that other MI5 consultants get out a tupperware box of homemade treats at lunchtime. He hopes they'll be jealous.

Handing Mycroft his glass of wine, Greg picks up his own and leans close to kiss his lover's cheek.

"Cheers, darlin'." Their glasses clink. "To us."

*

“To us.”

Dinner is easy and comfortable- and with so many finger foods on offer it is only a matter of time before they descend into fits of giggling and feeding each other out of their hands as the sky darkens.

Mycroft feels utterly relaxed by the time he finds himself laying with his head in Greg’s lap, accepting bits of blondie, the gentle warmth of wine in his blood. The first few bright stars to peek out are already lighting above them, scarcely visible yet, but they will be soon as the gloaming deepens.

“Shall you be building your beaver dam here, then? Cloister off part of a lake all to yourself… though we shall obviously need some sort of deck for picnics, if you make them like this every time.”

*

Greg grins down, pulling another blondie in half with his fingertips. 

"I'll make lots of little floating tables," he says, and holds the blondie for Mycroft to eat, watching with enjoyment as it disappears into his lover's mouth. "Just drift them 'round the lake... you can reach up to pull one down the depths whenever you're hungry."

He eats his own half a blondie with barely a thought, too busy enjoying the genuine warmth that image has raised in his chest. He's not a beaver; Mycroft's not a squid. He's never going to build them a home with his bare hands. Daydreaming it makes him so happy, though. 

It's a wonder it's taken this long to get round to buying a ring.

"I'd struggle getting wine to you," he admits, reaching for his glass. "It'd all tip out on the way down. Maybe you'd have to come up to the surface at night... bask for a while with me. Let me groom you."

*

“Groom me, hmm? And how might that work?” Mycroft laughs. The image is terrifically silly. He nuzzles his cheek against Greg’s belly, chuckling, and then rolls off, onto his side, so he can acquire another sip of wine for himself. 

“Too much teeth for that, I think.”

He smiles fondly at his love, his face warmed by soft candlelight.  _ How did we manage to wait so long?  _ Mycroft knows it’s irrational- there are endless couples who wait a year, five years, ten years, or never legally bind themselves at all, with perfect happiness. But with them, and Marmalade’s insistent guidance, it was almost as though they knew it was meant to be from the first moment they sat together.

“Of the very instant that I saw you did my heart fly at your service,” Mycroft murmurs, aware too late that he’s said it aloud. He blushes gently, swirling his wine. “The Tempest. Shakespeare’s best effort at his own fantasy story. Thought his seas were more troubled by storm than kraken.”

*

Greg finishes his glass of wine with a swig, puts it safely out of harm's way and scoots over to lie next to Mycroft on the blanket. 

"I'm glad we've finished with our storms. For now, at least." He props his head on his elbow, watching with a smile as Mycroft drinks. "M'sure there'll be fun and games to deal with somewhere down the line, but... it'll take a lot to scare us, at least."

He lifts a hand, gently, and brushes the very tips of his fingers through Mycroft's hair. His eyes shine, pupils wide and soft in the candlelight.

"Mine flew at yours too, love. Got one look at you, and just... 'wow'. Every nerve. Every bit of me, 'wow'. I'd serve you for the rest of my days if you let me."

His gaze strays to Mycroft's lips.

"However I can," he murmurs. His mouth curves. "Groom you... make you tiny floating tables and picnic food. Weather storms with you. I just want to see you happy and know it was me."

*

“It will always be you. Always.”

Mycroft watches that slow shift in gaze, the quiet pooling of arousal starting in his belly a near Pavlovian response. He takes another sip and sets his glass aside, as far off the blanket as he can reach. When his hand returns it settles on Greg’s hip, gently tugging him closer.

“I would like to make you quite happy as well. Both in the long term….” His lips skim up Greg’s jaw, taking their time in finding his mouth. The kiss is soft but inviting, promising much to come.

“And immediately as well.”

Mycroft lets himself feel the openness of the air, weighing it against matters of satellites and cameras, and decides if anyone is that determined they may as well go ahead and have a closer look. He won’t hold himself back in making his lover happy for an invisible and possibly nonexistent worry.

“The outdoors were on your original list, lovely. I have not forgotten. This is not quite the wild of the wood, but perhaps it might suffice.”

*

Greg comes closer as he's tugged, warning himself inwardly not to get too cosy out here. There's only so far they can go on a picnic blanket. His interest in a very specific branch of outdoor pursuits has remained one of few still-closed boxes in their sex life. Living in London means it's probably better left shut, while Mycroft's job means there are security concerns weighing the lid down. 

It's not a problem, of course. God knows he has enough other buttons for Mycroft to push. Letting one gather dust won't hurt him.

As they kiss, soft and a little slow, it's rather harder to nudge the thought aside. Mycroft tastes of wine and salted caramel. His body feels  _ close,  _ warm and accessible, and a palpable shiver tickles its way down Greg's spine.

_ 'Immediately as well'... _

_ What does that mean? _

At the mention of the list—the fabled list of their very first date—Greg's cheeks visibly colour. Though his expression barely moves, his pupils swell at once and a nervous intensity rounds his gaze. If Mycroft needed any further confirmation that this particular button reacts hard and fast, Greg's apparently casual shift a moment later doesn't quite hide the new tightness of his jeans.

"Are you—do you mean that?" he says, searching Mycroft's eyes. "'Cause it's... th-that's a bit of a thing for me, I mean. I get wound up quick." He hesitates, hardly daring to keep his hand on Mycroft's waist. "If you're just teasing..." 

*

Mycroft lifts a brow. This is a stronger reaction that he had anticipated, despite his familiarity with Greg’s exhibitionist leanings. 

“I am not teasing. There are few enough people who even know where this house is located, and of the few who are aware of it only one might be inclined to direct a satellite this way to check in.”

He offers a slow, reassuring kiss.  _ I am here and entirely yours, my love. _

“Even Anthea likely does not wish to know so much of our intimate life.”

One of his fingers curls in Greg’s belt loop, his thumb tracing over the bone of his hip.

“Show me what ‘winds you up quick’, lovely.”

*

Greg's gaze shutters, overwhelmed for a second by the sheer thought of what's about to begin. He almost doesn't dare believe it; this side of his sexuality has always felt like one he'll have to indulge in other ways. Suddenly he's desperately aware of his skin beneath his clothing, his blood just a little too hot.

"Probably not much to show," he whispers, as his hand skates nervously down Mycroft's back. He shifts again to try to ease the growing strain of his jeans, nuzzling close to kiss Mycroft's lips between words. "Just... together. Like we would upstairs, but out here."

He flushes, shivering as he finally lets his hands ease beneath the hem of Mycroft's shirt.  _ Fuck, how is your back so soft? How are you so warm? God—god, I want— _

"I know I'm a freak. I just... kinda like the thought of grass and air. Trying to stay quiet, e-even though it's—" His hips nudge against Mycroft's, offering his raging erection as the conclusion to his sentence. His breath roughens. "I-I don't care what. Just want to watch you. Please."

*

“You are not a  _ freak _ , Gregory.” 

Mycroft’s hand wanders, drifting back until he can cup a firm handful of Greg’s arse and pull him closer still, deliberately escalating the friction that Greg’s jeans must be getting against his own hip.

“Seeing as I am rather fond of tying you to the furniture and making you beg for me,” he shifts his hip as he traces his tongue over his lip. “Or being made to beg for you.... I should hardly think an appreciation of the open air is that scandalous.”

It’s something Mycroft has noticed in the copious amount of time they’ve spent in bed, that when Gregory is on the path to desperation he usually appreciates a bit more of Mycroft’s dominant side. He’s an anchor, in such cases, a point Gregory can ground himself in so he can be free to cease thinking and simply enjoy himself.

His free hand skims the hem of Gregory’s jumper and shifts it up, just barely brushing the skin beneath.

“Do you think you can stay quiet enough? Keep from scandalizing our poor neighbors?”

Mycroft’s lips brush up Greg’s jaw until his teeth find the lobe of his ear and pull gently.

“Do you think you can be  _ good?” _

*

Greg bites down into his groan. It tapers into a whimper, swallowed back as he forces himself to breathe. One hand has found its way to Mycroft's arse, gripping to keep his lover close, needing that contact and that promise. Even the gentle skim of fingertips beneath his jumper jolts his pulse skyward.

"Yes," he gasps, stomach muscles tightening. His hips thrust in instinct, a physical and restless  _ please.  _ "I-I'll be good. I'll try."

_ Gonna have to try hard. Fuck. Really, really hard. _

As he pushes up the hem of Mycroft's shirt, exposing his lover's back to the stars, a last rush of nerves stalls Greg's hand. He shivers, swallowing again. 

"Y-You sure?" he breathes, even as he rucks the fabric between his fingers, wanting it off, aching to see it cast aside to the ground. "God, I—I want you—"

*

“Yes, my love.” The air is a little chill, but not unwelcome. Not with the heated passion Mycroft can already see in Gregory’s eyes. His own lust is slower to unfurl, but still present, as it ever is when it comes to Greg.

His hand slides up, the contact with Greg’s heated skin a contrast with the cool night. “You have me.”

Mycroft assists with getting his own shirt off, followed in quick succession by Greg’s, both set aside out of the way of the candles. In the quiet glow Gregory looks even more handsome than usual, as though he belongs on the cover of some tawdry romance featuring a field and a farmer’s daughter.

A soft breeze drifts by, sending Mycroft thoroughly into Greg’s arms- he’s always run a bit colder than Greg, who usually warms their bed with the same persistence as a coal-fired stove. 

“Warm me up, beautiful.”

*

The words tighten Greg's stomach at once. Nothing in the world works for him so deeply, so desperately, as simply hearing that he's wanted.  _ 'Pleasure me.'  _ It makes him ache. 

His heart pounds as he turns Mycroft gently onto his back, resting his lover with care away from the candles. He reaches briefly for the basket and retrieves one of the two blankets from inside, bundling it into a pillow for Mycroft's head and neck.  _ Want you to be comfortable... want you to relax, want you to feel good.  _ The other blanket he eases over them both, a loose cover against the breeze.

His body makes a far warmer blanket. He lets his weight settle on Mycroft gently, nuzzling into his lover's neck as he reaches between them. His fingers tend to Mycroft's trousers first. When the catch is open and the zip lowered, he does his own, the motions quick and familiar. He's far more focused on Mycroft's throat, kissing and gently biting, brushing hot trails between the fading pink shadows of old love bites. They've had so much sex this holiday;  _ I love you  _ said with skin as much as words. Their bond feels closer than it ever did, so rooted in the physical and real. Greg needs it more than he needs to breathe.

His kissing sinks its way down Mycroft's chest, rasping here and there as he winds just underneath the soft pink blanket. Unable to wait, he nuzzles into the open front of Mycroft's trousers, shaping his mouth around his lover's cock through the fabric and teasing with the heat of his breath. As he finally tugs Mycroft's underwear down with his teeth, his hands come up to help. 

He vanishes under the blanket while he removes Mycroft's trousers and underwear, dotting kisses and little nips and licks to the inside of Mycroft's thighs, behind his knees and all around his ankles. When he finally emerges, he peers up from beneath the hem of the blanket with a puppyish gaze of love, his hair softly scruffed and his eyes hopeful. He rests his cheek against the top of Mycroft's thigh. 

Holding his lover's eyes, he slips out his tongue and laves it against the root of Mycroft's cock. 

"Miss you tomorrow," he murmurs. He shifts, sitting up a little, and lets his tongue slide wetly from the base of Mycroft's cock to the tip. "Will you think about me?" 

*

There’s something youthful in the concept Mycroft had noticed before. Something about sneaking around under blankets and attempting not to be heard. It is perhaps the sort of thing someone with a more traditional upbringing might have done- and doing it now, outside a house he spent much of his youth in, appeals to Mycroft’s sense of… fun.

_ A very delayed rebellion, perhaps. _

There is also a note of intrigue when he finds himself predicting Gregory’s movements by feel, unable to see him under the cover of the blanket.  _ Perhaps something to explore later. _ There’s always something else to explore, and Mycroft wouldn’t have it any other way.

He has to work not make any noise himself, with all of Gregory’s dastardly little nips and kisses. “Tease,” Mycroft murmurs when Greg finally emerges, looking dangerously tousled. His breath expends in a low, controlled huff when his lover’s tongue traces him, fingers instinctually coiling in the blanket.

“I shall think of you with every passing second. Oh-” 

Mycroft inhales as Greg’s tongue sweeps over him again.

“It shall be a wonder I do any work at all.” In fact, he will be doing precisely  _ none  _ save that which endeavors to make this mad, beautiful man his husband. “Though you shall have the whole day to relax. I expect to be- ah-” Mycroft restrains himself from fidgeting overmuch, but  _ good lord _ if Gregory isn’t making it difficult. “-either scraping you off the bottom of the tub after a good soak, or finding you in the kitchen, having invented an entirely new form of pastry.”

*

_ Fuck, if you knew how you look right now. How you sound. _

_ How you feel. _

There's something about idly stroking Mycroft's cock with his mouth, watching him try to continue speaking. Greg keeps the sweeps of his tongue lazy and delicately slow, as if he's never done this before—as if he's taking his time just to learn, to discover how it feels to rub a cock along the wet pad of his tongue. 

The unbroken, shameless eye contact adds a rather contrasting edge to the display.

Greg finds himself glad of the occupation. It keeps his thoughts from his face—thoughts of the wonderful but decidedly unrelaxing day he'll be having. He's going to have to make it look like he's been lounging about the house in his boxer shorts, not nervously buying the first gift he'll ever give to his fiance. 

_ Just do this to you when you get home,  _ he thinks, smiling against the tip of Mycroft's cock. His tongue slips out, wet little strokes—almost lizard-like flicks against his lover's frenulum.  _ Instant distraction. _

"Shame we're waiting for the photos," he says, sly. "You could've handed them round the meeting on your phone. Shown them all what you've been dragged away from..."

As he swirls his tongue around the head of Mycroft's cock, Greg reaches a hand down his own body. He can't bear to ignore the ache anymore. He eases his fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, shuddering, his breath tightening as he rubs himself.

"Made your displeasure known," he says, shivering, and laps his way down Mycroft's cock, his licks growing hungry and restless. "Mhm—f-fuck—" 

*

“Mmm- you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Everyone knowing how- ah- gorgeously eager you are.”

Mycroft’s hands flex in the blanket, not quite gripping. He’s underestimated Greg, expecting him to be desperate, not toying with a side dish of delightfull nefarious intent to make  _ him _ be the one that must remain quiet first.

_ Always keep surprising me, my love. _

One of his hands shifts to Gregory’s hair, gently closing over his beloved silvery strands. His expression tightens after Gregory’s mouth closes over the head of his cock, his lover’s tongue still moving, and Mycroft has to shift his gaze to the sky to keep himself from crying out in earnest. 

“Don’t- don’t make yourself come, hellion. I-  _ fuck- _ have plans for you.”

*

The thought of  _ plans  _ makes Greg shiver. He slides Mycroft's cock deeper into his mouth in response, humming his soft acquiescence. The rubbing of his hand becomes a mere background sensation, keeping his blood hot as he works. 

He won't come from this; Mycroft won't either. This isn't oral with a finish line. 

It's another physical  _ I love you,  _ played out in the lazy winding of his tongue and the slow back-and-forth of his mouth. It's a way to demonstrate his obedience, responding to Mycroft's gentle pulls in his hair. It's about seeing just how long he's allowed to stay here, half-hidden under the blanket, tending to his lover's cock as if he plans to be here all damn night.

_ And anyone could see. _

Greg knows in his rational mind that this intimacy is as private as any which takes place in their bedroom. Nobody's here; they're not being watched. No windows nearby have anywhere near a decent line-of-sight to the garden. They're not going to be seen, nor stumbled across.

It's the thought, though—that tiny possibility—the feeling that someone, somewhere, could happen across this sight at any moment. A glance through a window, their eye caught by candlelight in a distant garden; Mycroft, bare-chested and facing the stars, tended by a lover half-concealed beneath a blanket.  _ Yours,  _ Greg thinks, trembling a little as he gazes upwards and grinds against his own palm for relief.  _ Your lover. Looking after you. Someone seeing your pleasure, seeing what I do to you, seeing that you're mine. Oh god. _

*

Mycroft indulges in the sweet patterns drawn by his lover’s tongue for what feels like hours. It’s almost like edging himself, or permitting Gregory to edge him, but not so severe- simply a glowing blaze of sensation, constantly stoked.

He can feel that Gregory is not immune to the  _ need _ it creates either. There are little shifts between his legs that give away his lover’s shifting for relief.  _ Let me, darling. _ Gregory always treats him so well, he owes it to his love to give back and send him into his own personal realm of bliss.

Had he planned ahead he might have brought the supplies to make this an even more decadent experience, but Mycroft has always been clever. He’ll make do.

“Mmm- your mouth is far too skilled. Come here, love.” 

Mycroft beckons his lover- his almost husband- and oh, god, what a thrill that will be, the chance to call this glorious man  _ husband- _ back up the blanket to share in a deep and passionate kiss.

“May I return the favor, darling?”

He’s already gently shifting Greg over, to trade him spots between the glow of the candles. His hand finds the skin of Greg’s back and gently presses, guiding him not onto his back but his belly as Mycroft’s lips cross his neck and shoulder.

“A similar favor, at any rate,” he breathes, smirking against the curve of Greg’s spine.


	15. Chapter 15

Not for the first time, going down on Mycroft seems to ease Greg into an almost altered state of mind. He's never tried meditation or mindfulness—but from what he's heard, their effects are startlingly similar to what he gets from having Mycroft's cock easing slowly in and out of his throat. There's something almost hypnotic about it, something rhythmic and reassuring. His whole world draws tight around this one physical sensation. Time passes without his notice. By the time Mycroft's voice calls him up, he's trembling gently and almost liquidly relaxed.

He kisses Mycroft's mouth with the same fervour and love with which he tended to his cock.

As he finds himself turned onto his belly, and realises what precisely Mycroft has in mind, the leap of Greg's pulse catches in his breath. He moans a little, shivering, and lets Mycroft lay him flat. The blanket rasps softly against his nipples; the night air settles cool upon his back. 

"Oh god," he whispers, and rather restlessly shifts within his open jeans. He can feel his cock pinned beneath his stomach, nearly throbbing already. "God, I—p-please, love. Yes."

*

“Mmmhm?”

Mycroft’s fingers hook around the top of Greg’s jeans and pants, pulling them slowly downward and savoring the view as the sweet curve of his arse is revealed. He doesn’t pull any farther than the orb he has his mind on- leaving them there will be a bit restrictive for Greg, but that’s all part of the fun. 

He lets his hands wander, kneading the supple flesh, massaging it in a variation of gentle and firm. Soft kisses trace over the span of the bone above, then lower, his teeth nipping playfully into the meat of it.

“Now Gregory… you shall tell me if you cannot maintain your volume, yes? I’ll find something to assist you if it is needed. Otherwise you might attract… attention.” 

Mycroft’s mouth shifts lower, his tongue beginning to join his playful kisses as he explores the soft skin at the top of Gregory’s thighs. He loves pleasing Gregory like this. Surprising him. Giving him the things he doesn’t believe he can ask for- like sex in the moonlight.

“Anyone could walk by and see you spread for me….”

His tongue flicks up, drawing lines on the back of Gregory’s bollocks.

“Anyone at all.”

Cupping Gregory’s arsecheeks firmly, he spreads them, giving himself room to start lavishing the span between them in earnest.

*

_ Oh god. The voice. You're using the voice.  _ Greg's gasping into the blanket before he's felt so much as a stroke of Mycroft's tongue. He presses his cheek against the cool pink fabric and tries to focus on the bite of his teeth against his lower lip, not the way his thighs feel half-restrained by denim, nor the trickle of Mycroft's voice and the delicious things it says. 

At the first flick of Mycroft's tongue across his balls, Greg realises he's done for. He whines, stretching, trying to push his thighs apart. He should have known Mycroft would take his shy kink and turn it into a fucking artform.  _ 'Anyone could walk by and see you spread for me'. Fuck. Actual fuck. Fucking fuck.  _ Greg's hands claw out across the blanket, desperate, finding nothing until its edge and then soft cool grass to bury his fingers in like it's Mycroft's hair. He grips it, panting, fighting the urge to cry out as his lover starts to eat him fucking alive.

It's so hard not to moan. 

It's hard enough not to whimper—nor to picture what someone would see if they stepped through the patio doors right now; see him clawing into the grass, spread open and mewling, hips writhing both away and towards the stimulation.  _ Fuck, oh fuck.  _ Rutting against the blanket doesn't ease his throbbing cock in the slightest. It's just teasing him more—but he can't fucking stop. 

The stream of internal profanity starts to break free from his mouth in less than a minute, whimpered 'fucks' and 'please' and 'Myc'.

*

Mycroft smiles. Gregory has no idea how lovely he sounds when he’s desperate. Though if he were to mention it Gregory would probably do something foolish like send him an audio file the next time Mycroft is summoned overseas, and Mycroft will find himself unable to get a single bit of work done.

“Gregory… it seems you require assistance being  _ good _ and  _ quiet _ , hmm?”

He traces his tongue very intentionally around Greg’s hole just to listen to those sweet whimpers and the sound of his own pleaded name.

“Let me help you, lovely.”

In the dim candlelight he finds Greg’s shirt and rolls it, the thin fabric easy to fashion into something like a slim rope. Crawling back up, his chest against Greg’s back, he holds it out in front of his lover’s flushed face. “Head up, please, beautiful.”

The fabric fits easily between Greg’s teeth, and aesthetically it’s… even better than Mycroft had hoped.  _ Candlelight and stars. Of course you look wonderful.  _ His cock twitches, nudging the arse he’s been working to make so pliant. 

His fingers trace Greg’s cheek as he moves to tie the fabric off behind his head. 

“Comfortable?”

*

Greg nods, his flush deepening. His heart is about to punch its way free from his chest, but it's comfortable. They've never tried this. He's never tried it with anyone. He doesn't want to name it—it doesn't feel like he's gagged, silenced—it feels like he's being helped. It's as comfortable and reassuring as when Mycroft ties him to the bed at night, or holds his hands at the small of his back against the shower wall.  _ Secure,  _ he thinks, his chest aching.  _ Restrained. For your pleasure. Behaving nicely for you.  _

He lays his head back down, panting softly beneath the reassurance of his lover's weight. 

Something about the breeze, the clean and cool smell of the grass, brings a queer flash of clarity to his mind. 

_ This is what you mean... isn't it?  _

_ BDSM.  _

_ It's just this, it's... it's giving to each other. Letting you have everything. Trusting you like this.  _

Greg swallows as much as he can around the fabric in his mouth, shivering with the force of the realisation. 

_ Holy shit, I want it.  _

*

Mycroft trails his fingers down Greg’s back, the touch light and soft. “Good boy. That’s better, isn’t it?”

He’s glad Gregory seems to like it- this trip has contained enough sexual experimentation to keep them testing out the intricacies of the new pleasures they’ve found for months, if not years.  _ Or forever.  _ The thought that they may need to discuss which toys to take on a honeymoon nearly makes him laugh, but he contains it to a low huff of breath against Greg’s lower back.

“Now. If you get too close to coming, why don’t you… ah, here.” Mycroft arranges himself so one of Greg’s feet is touching his thigh. “Just tap me, yes, lovely?”

Bending once more, his hands find the same comfortable position and knead into Greg’s arse, parting it to the open air. 

“If you’re good, you can ride me next. Then there would be no doubt, if anyone saw you, nude and entirely mine.”

His tongue dives back in with earnest vigor, eager to make Greg as wet and pliant as possible.  _ You’ll feel me tomorrow, lovely. I want you to. _

*

_ Open for you. Wet for you.  _ As Mycroft's tongue presses back inside him, Greg tightens his hands in the grass and moans. The fabric muffles the sound, softening it.

A strange peace floods at once through Greg's mind. 

_ Safe,  _ he thinks. _ Okay to moan. Still your good boy.  _ He pants restlessly around the fabric, turning his head against the blanket as his hips rock back.  _ Oh god, more.  _ The physical sensation is overwhelmingly good; the situation around it makes his cock so hard it nearly hurts. He feels like he's suspended safe in Mycroft's authority. He doesn't need to do anything, be anything—just give himself to Mycroft, take whatever pleasure Mycroft wants to fill him with.

_ God.  _

_ Please.  _

The night air seems to stroke his naked back as he squirms. He finds his vision focusing on the nearest jar of candlelight, overcome, his gaze fogging as ripples of pleasure course upwards through his abdomen. It feels so good just to take. 

_ Want to be ready for you, soft for you. Slick and tight and good for you. _

*

Mycroft works with careful precision, varying his pace to ensure Gregory cannot fall too easily into a pleasurable rhythm- he doesn’t wish to torture his lover, after all. But he also takes his time to make Greg as relaxed as possible. For a while his tongue simply presses in, deeper and deeper, pulsing and twitching, his hands holding his lover’s hips down.

Each shift and squirm Gregory makes tells him a story, and Mycroft listens attentively. When he’s as pliant and lubricated as Mycroft thinks he can become, he pulls back, wiping the excess saliva from his mouth. One moistened finger circles slowly, pressing in to test the work his tongue has done.

_ Perfect. Always so perfect. _

“Are you ready, lovely?”

His fingertips, draw up and down Greg’s back, simply enjoying the contact. Keeping them close. As they go up again he runs one hand through Gregory’s hair, almost massaging the scalp beneath. The other traces the path of the gag around, softly touching his parted lips.

“Shall we keep this in?”

*

Greg nods a little nervously, offering a hopeful yes to both questions. He likes the feeling of the fabric in his mouth—and he suspects he's going to need it. If they'd been in bed while Mycroft's tongue fucked him so expertly, and for so long, he'd have been pleading in desperation at some volume by now. 

Even the nuzzle of Mycroft's finger makes him whimper into his shirt. 

He pushes back against the touch, shuddering, with a hopeful wriggle against the continuing restriction of his jeans. He's reaching a stage where the feeling of clothing is almost distressing—he wants to feel his own bare skin, Mycroft's body pressed against him. He wants to be fucked. He doesn't care who sees him like this, and the longer it goes on, the hotter it becomes to imagine being witnessed in this state.

All he can do to beg for more is moan softly, shift and spread his thighs. 

Stretching his hands out into the grass, he keeps his torso flat to the ground. He arches up his hips in hope.  _ Yours. Need you. Want to be full.  _ The movement feels so submissive—and he doesn't care in the least. He just needs more.

*

_ Good lord. _

Mycroft feels a churning in his belly at the sight of Greg arched, begging without words for his cock. He nips at Greg’s earlobe, feeling pleased and powerful. It’s a different kind of heady thrill, being offered his lover’s body for whatever his heart might desire. 

He takes his time to stroke along Gregory’s skin as he slides back, reaching finally for his jeans and tugging them down farther, enough to free his obviously needy cock. Mycroft pauses to gently tease his bollocks and stroke in one long pass over his cock, feeling the dampness that’s accumulated at the tip.

“Look how desperate you are. And in public, no less.”

Sliding the jeans down the rest of the way and tossing them aside, Mycroft takes his time running his hands over his lover’s skin, from his ankles all the way up to the highest, softest part of his thighs. Nudging Greg’s legs apart to fit his own, he uses his own saliva to slick the head of his cock.

“Is this how you want everyone to see you? Naked and,” he forgives himself the play on words, “gagging for it?”

Mycroft lines up, nudging against Greg’s hole, teasing and toying, before he begins to slowly push in, shifting his hands to his lover’s hips. He gasps softly, the heat of it a beautiful contrast to the night air, needing to pause to keep himself in check.

“You are so gorgeous, my love,” he breathes. “So beautiful. Anyone who sees you should be honored to even have a glimpse.”

*

_ 'Look how desperate you are.'  _ Greg jerks at the single perfect stroke, so intensely good it's almost painful. The noise he lets out into the fabric would be a cry, unmuffled. His hips push back further and he gasps.

As Mycroft strokes him, he starts to tremble; tiny goosebumps rise across his skin. He's whimpering by the time his legs are nudged apart, digging his fingers into the grass and pressing his hot face against the comfort of the blanket. Being empty hurts. His heart feels like it's relocated to his groin, pounding there and rendering him utterly unable to think.

The nuzzle of Mycroft's cock makes him whimper and tighten.  _ Yes. Fuck yes. Please. Please, please—  _

The rawness feels incredible. It's what he needs right now. He doesn't want lube and slowness and easy. He wants to know he'll feel every moment of this tomorrow, remember with every move he makes that he was muffled and fucked under the stars. 

Bracing the heels of his palms into the ground, he shudders and impales himself backwards onto Mycroft's cock, unwilling to wait, groaning in the pit of his throat as it fills him. As he pants, bearing down, into his mind comes another flash—another vision of being watched like this—someone lingering out of sight somewhere, hearing him moan pleadingly into his gag for his lover to move. 

_ Fuck. Fuck, please— _

*

Mycroft tosses his head back, his lower lip white where his teeth have just dug in to stop his own shout.  _ Good god.  _ He hadn’t know Gregory could get this- eager. 

The slide of it ripples through his cock, rushing in a burst of tightening heat to his core. This won’t take long, but that’s alright. Gregory  _ needs _ him. And Mycroft will take care of him, as he has promised in all but vows to do.

He rocks, going harder and deeper with each thrust. “Gregory-”

Mycroft doesn’t want to hurt him, but as he goes on he only sees the signs of delirious pleasure. It makes him bolder, better able to firm up his grasp on Greg’s hips and draw him back with each pump, so that the firm, slapping sound of their coupling is the loudest part of the endeavor.

For a second Mycroft is keenly aware of the loudness of it, so much greater in the night silence than it would be in their bedroom. His stomach flutters. 

_ No one can see. No one is here, and I can offer this to him. _

His hand slips around and wraps Greg’s cock. 

_ Even if they were, let them. Let them see that you are mine. _

*

_ Oh, fuck—perfect, perfect, perfect— _

The drive of Mycroft inside him; the rhythmic smack of their skin; the fingers grasping his cock. Pleasure burns beneath Greg's skin as it all seems to become one motion, one movement, over and over between them. As Mycroft thrusts, he rocks back. Each spike of pleasure jolts higher and higher. 

Even without the hand stroking his cock, he'd be rapidly reaching the edge.

Panting hard, head hanging between his shoulders, he realises he wouldn't draw this out even if he could. He's going to come any second and it's going to be huge. The tap he gives to Mycroft's thigh with his foot is urgent, desperate. His back arches low; his shoulders bulk.

The animal sound now leaving his throat becomes something between a whine and a groan, panted through his teeth. 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck—now— _

*

“That’s it- that’s it, love-”

Mycroft quickens the pace of his hand, plowing as deep and as fast as he can. The shift in sensation pulls in his core, everything tightening.  _ Close- not close enough. Gregory first- _

He needs it more, after all.

“Go on- come for me- show me- show everyone-”

The noises Greg is making are exquisite, gorgeous things, so honest and pure, even muffled. As Mycroft feels Greg’s cock twitch in his hand, beginning to pulse his release, his own bollocks pull up, readying themselves. “That’s it- beautiful- so beautiful, you are-”

He withdraws from Greg to finish, not wishing to risk overstimulating him after a raw fuck. Even that act, the slide of his cock exiting his lover, is nearly enough to put him over- it only takes a few strokes from his hand to finish it. Mycroft’s cry is a gasped, wrecked sound, a desperate and thwarted attempt at remaining fully silent. He spills on Gregory’s back, decorating him over his arse, legs shaking.

“Fuck.” 

Mycroft pants for a bit, heart still hammering, then reaches over to help Gregory with the gag. He lays his lover down and pulls another blanket over- the mess will be easily cleaned, so there is no reason to sit in the night air with one’s cock out. His fingers stroke into Greg’s hair, smoothing it.

“Here, love- just lay a bit. I’ve got you. And you did so well for me, didn’t you? So very well.”

*

The world is a blur: hormones, soft fabric, his lover's skin. Greg nestles into Mycroft's arms as soon as they're offered to him, still panting, feeling hotter and stickier and more absolutely  _ fucked  _ than he's ever felt in his entire fucking life. His heart heaves. His brain lies in fragments, shattered pieces of himself.

For a few minutes of panted quiet, all he can process is the need for Mycroft's body warmth and voice. He holds on tightly, his shudders softening, and listens to the gentle things being murmured to him. It feels like being pitched off a cliff; every whispered softness cups itself gently beneath him, slowing his fall, easing him back to earth. 

Steadily, quietly, his pulse begins to settle.

It's some time before he even remembers he has a voice. The satisfaction and rawness of it all feels so animal his brain has left language somewhere in the pile for later, unneeded, unnecessary.

As he rakes his fingers through Mycroft's hair, delighting in the cooling dampness of his lover's sweat, Greg shivers to the soul. He finds the words. 

"You magnificent bastard," he breathes in Mycroft's ear—then bites it, tugging, none too gentle. "I love you."

*

  
  


Mycroft is glad he did a bit of research.  _ Aftercare. _ No matter that Greg is hesitant about referring to any of their activities as BDSM, it does seem he has similar needs when they engage in anything intense. 

It’s sensible, in Mycroft’s opinion. A way to wind down the chemical components of the mind. His hands wrap Greg’s shoulders protectively, drawing him in closer as Gregory begins to unfurl and touch him in kind.

_ “Magnificent bastard.” Hah.  _ It’s doubtful anyone has called him such in an appreciative manner before, but something about it on Greg’s lips makes him fond.

Mycroft chuckles quietly. “I love you too.”

His hands slide over Greg’s back, stroking him and ensuring he’s warm under the blanket. His lips turn in to meet his lover’s cheek, his nose nuzzling against the dampened skin. They both smell of sweat and sex, but that’s something he associates with home and joy. Mycroft would bottle it as cologne if he thought he could get away with it.

“Was that everything you desired, my gorgeous exhibitionist?”

*

"Argh. I'm not an exhibitionist." Hearing himself try to say it, Greg laughs and gives in at once. He hides himself away against his lover's cheek. "Alright," he says, grinning, flushing to his hairline, "maybe I am a bit. Maybe more than a bit? Holy shit, that was amazing..."

It feels so good to lie here this way, naked and safe beneath the blanket together, their sweat cooling comfortably in the night air. Greg realises he's stroking Mycroft's back like he's never had the chance before, mapping every muscle, every inch of his skin. He doesn't ever want to let go. He doesn't ever want to get dressed and go inside—they'll just live out here like this, happy and free.

"That was incredible," he whispers, pulling his lover's scent into his lungs with a breath. "That was... J-Jesus, Myc... I don't even know how to tell you how amazing that was. My brain is wrecked." He cringes and laughs at once, nuzzling into Mycroft's shoulder. "Oh shit, I'm an exhibitionist..."

*

Mycroft chuckles again, stroking Greg’s hair in an unconscious rhythm with the feeling of the hand on his back. That is how melded they are, in moments like this, that they often don’t realize how closely they mirror their affection.

There’s no rush to go inside- they’re warm enough in the blankets, and they have each other. Nothing else is important. Mycroft kisses what his lips can reach- the edge of Greg’s ear, the bone of his cheek, even his hair. 

Tomorrow he’ll be buying a ring. 

The thought makes his breath catch.  _ This, forever. You, forever.  _ Why wouldn’t he offer his love- his only love, the one he’ll be sworn to- whatever is in his power to make him happy? Whether that means sexual experimentation or cleaning the house before he’s asked.

“You like showing yourself off, to a degree, and nothing could bring me greater joy than making you happy. Whatever that means. We can be… kinky… together.”

*

_ Christ, I feel so giggly.  _ Whatever hormones are now surging, Greg's glad of them. There's a wonderful rich honesty flowing through his veins, lighting him up, and the feel of Mycroft's fingers through his hair is heaven.  _ God, am I high? High on sex...  _

_ High on the man I love...  _

Humming, shivering with satisfaction, Greg wraps one ankle around Mycroft's legs and pulls them close. His toes fan, stroking down the back of Mycroft's calf muscle.  _ If we could melt together, all our skin, just... one body, one soul... never, ever be apart... _

Happy, shining with it, Greg lifts his lips to Mycroft's ear.

"Hey..." he whispers. Utter love warms his voice. "M'sorry I spooked at BDSM. You meant like this, didn't you? Just the two of us... fucking and having fun..." 

His mouth strokes across Mycroft's ear, a brush of soft lips and warm breath. 

"I want this," he murmurs. "More of this. If this is kinky, love, let's get kinky. I'm so fucking in love with you."

*

“It can be whatever we want, love.”

Mycroft smiles hopelessly. He can’t help it. Seeing Gregory so blissfully happy warms him from his heart to the very depths of his soul. It makes him feel protective, compels him to keep Gregory as tight in his embrace as he can manage.

“Calling it bondage… or exhibitionism… does not need to mean the same thing to us that it does to someone… labelling internet pornography. It is whatever we make of it. Whatever appeals to us.”

Mycroft could stay like this a long time, out here under the stars that are so clearly visible without the lights of London to dilute them. Carefully, he eases them lower, so they’re both lying down.  _ Where I might wonder at you as much as the sky. _

So they will have to part for a time tomorrow. What are a few hours compared with years? 

“I love you, Gregory. Eternally.”


	16. Chapter 16

Next morning, Greg wakes to find he's aching in muscles he didn't even know he had. His first sound of the day is a stiff little moan, breathed out as he turns onto his back in bed.

It's entirely worth it.

He grins up at the ceiling as he remembers last night, his eyes still closed.  _ Christ, that all really happened... we actually got that kinky... _

_ And today... _

Today he sneaks out to buy his husband's engagement ring. By the time Mycroft returns this evening, somewhere in this house will be hidden the next step towards the rest of their lives. 

It's all about to begin.

As he draws a deep breath, Greg feels his lover's weight stir beside him on the mattress. Sleepily he looks across the pillows, watching with a smile as Mycroft starts to come round.

Shifting a little closer, Greg reaches out beneath the covers. He strokes a gentle hand along Mycroft's side.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmurs. His voice comes soft and gravelled with sleep. "Did you have nice dreams?"

*

Mycroft grumbles quietly, shifting closer and tucking his face into Greg’s chest. Not quite ready to be awake yet, he indulges himself in simply seeking the warmth and comfort of his lover’s body and the familiar scent of it.

He’d woken up very early and spent a restless hour or two reviewing the rings his preferred jeweler had suggested for short notice- money, of course, being no object. Mycroft must see the settings in person to be sure, but… he has a preference now. A solid preference. That should expedite matters.

But it did not precisely lend itself to gaining him a proper amount of sleep.

“I don’t remember,” he murmurs into Greg’s pectorals. “But I shall assume you were in them and they were, therefore, utterly perfect.”

He slots their legs together, making himself even more comfortable. A bit of protest will make this necessary bit of theater more believable. Especially when the protest has some truth in it.

“Tell Anthea I am too comfortable to get out of bed. She shall have to make do.”

*

Greg's stomach squeezes quietly with guilt.  _ Worth it,  _ he tells himself, gathering the covers around Mycroft's neck to keep him cosy. He wraps his arms atop them, cocooning Mycroft within their softness, and cards his fingers slowly through his lover's hair. 

He presses a little kiss to the crown of Mycroft's head.

"Marmalade'll be sad if she doesn't see you," he murmurs. "Just tell yourself you're only going so you can check on her. The negotiations thing... s'just an errand. Popping into the office."

*

Mycroft sighs. “I do miss her.” It’s odd not to have Marmalade in their bed in the morning, or perched on a counter watching Greg cook. Regular updates from Anthea have helped, however, especially since said updates typically include copious video. 

He sighs again, a bit dramatically if he’s being honest. “I shall strive not to return to you too late, love, but I will let you know if things run long.” 

Nestling further into Greg’s arms, Mycroft lets himself wallow in the cuddle, dragging it out as much as he can. Even though he’s excited to venture off and purchase the ring, misleading Gregory is not his preference. But it is only a little white lie.

And it will be so well worth it in the end.

“What are you planning for today, lovely?”

*

Greg smiles, wrapping an ankle around Mycroft's shin.

"Nothing too exciting—don't worry. You won't miss anything." 

It feels magnificent to be so closely entwined. Having Mycroft nestling into his chest will always make him feel oddly proud; it awakens the protective instincts he's been surprised to find come so naturally these days. He never knows how to make this sound as complementary as it seems in his heart, but cradling Mycroft makes him feel like a police officer. 

It's nice.

"I might go for a wander to the town," he says, and his body helpfully gives him a casual yawn to heave. His chest expands under Mycroft's cheek, shoulders bulking a little and shivering. "I might just sit by the front window and pine for you... s'pose we'll find out when you get home."

He takes to stroking Mycroft's temple, feather-light with his thumb.

"Let me know when you've got an ETA for getting back here, will you? I'll put dinner on. I can have it ready for when you step through the door." He grins, kissing Mycroft's hair again. "Take your coat. Massage your feet for you."

*

“Mmm, if I am to gain that sort of treatment in turn I shall of course give you ample warning.” 

Mycroft inhales deeply, as though he might be able to absorb Gregory’s scent so deeply that it shall override all else. It will be something to carry with him today- a reminder of the man he is purchasing this ring for. A reminder of the family they will make, with Marmalade, for good and all.

_ Perhaps she will smell him on me and know we both intend to return. _

Hopefully their small princess shall not be too wroth by their absence, but Mycroft can already imagine that she shall be earning far more bacon than is truly necessary upon their return.

With one last long inhale, Mycroft forces himself up, offering a kiss to his love as he starts to unfurl from the covers. “I ought to shower. Try not to pine too much, my love.”

*

_ Christ. I'll miss you. _

"Hey," Greg murmurs, his heart tightening. "Hey... one last—" He sits up with Mycroft, reaches for his lover's face and cups it gently in both hands, bringing him close to kiss—slowly, deeply, a kiss worth remembering. It's only going to be a few hours apart. It shouldn't matter, really; this shouldn't feel like a separation.

_ Gonna miss you, though.  _

_ Like mad. _

As their lips come apart, Greg finds his pulse raised. For a moment, he almost wonders if he's doing the right thing.  _ Would you want to choose your own?  _ he thinks, gazing at Mycroft. _ But how could I ask you, without...?  _ He pushes it from his mind, swallowing; he glances at Mycroft's lips.

"I love you," he says. He says it all the time; he knows that. This time, he lets the words rest in the air for a moment. He lets them really mean it. 

He smiles a little as he steals one final, final kiss. 

"Text me... if you can, I mean. Let me know how your day's going."

*

“I shall.”

Mycroft lets his fingers linger on Greg’s cheek.  _ Soon, love. _ “Go back to sleep, love. Have a lie-in. I will be back in your arms before you know it.”

His shower is brief. Mycroft is far too anxious to get moving. He dresses in one of his more serious suits, the better to reinforce the image that he is going to do work alone, and he offers Greg another soft kiss on the cheek, tucking him back under the covers.  _ At least one of us shall be well-rested. _

There will need to be a modicum of  _ actual  _ work, of course, if only to justify the use of the helicopter, but Mycroft handles all of it while they are in transit. Anthea awaits him at the landing zone with a few more pieces of paperwork that require his signature. 

“Ready for your big day?”

Ready may not be the precise term. Mycroft is… excitedly nervous, if he is being entirely honest with himself. The ring must be perfect for Greg. He will tolerate nothing less. “I admit to a degree of trepidation in making such a… momentous choice. I hope to select something he loves.”

Anthea smiles. That Mycroft would admit anything of the sort is a testament to Greg’s good influence. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, sir. Now, I’ve arranged a car for you, and I’ll be here if you need anything, seeing as some of us are not on holiday.”

She shoos him off into the car that seems quite deliberately stocked with bottled water and protein bars. Apparently she suspects- correctly- that Mycroft is too distracted and nervous to adequately manage minding his own nutrition without intervention.

Fed and watered, he takes a deep breath as he exits the car outside the jeweler. It is a small, discreet shop, on a small, discreet street, the sort of which has quite a lot of businesses that are all accessible  _ by appointment only.  _ Armand steps out to hold the door to the shop, ever attentive. “Welcome, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hello Armand. How is your father?”

“Unretired, for today. He insists he will help you with your decision and perform any desired alterations himself.”

Mycroft chuckles. “He’s in the back, isn’t he.”

“Yes, playing with all the gems. We must hurry or we’ll find he’s piled them all into a dragon’s hoard, and then we shall never see them again.”

“Then I suppose we must.” Mycroft smiles. He’s always liked Armand. The man is free with his whimsical side, which yields truly artful creations whether he is designing something custom-made or altering an existing pattern. “I have a knight to woo, and no time for slaying dragons.”

“After you then, sir, after you.”

*

_ Am I rushing this?  _

Greg didn't think he was, until now. The trays and trays of potential rings laid out upon the counter feel like a hurdle he didn't realise he'd have to jump. As he looks through them, painfully aware of the assistant watching him across the counter, he realises he had a misguided and vague feeling he'd walk in here and the right one would be boxed and ready for him somehow, tied with a bow. His heart half-expects one of the metal bands to be glowing, sparkling a little, beckoning him over. 

It's not engagement he's unsure about.  _ That  _ decision, he's made for certain—and he knows he wants to get this bit right, which is why it's frightening him—he's just starting to wonder if Mycroft should be here beside him. Mycroft wouldn't be intimidated by this ocean of choice. He'd be able to tell the perfect ring from a crap ring at a single glance, spotting features and flaws that Greg's less refined sense of taste can't possibly hope to pick up on. 

_ God... Christ, if I present you with some hideous— _

Then again, Greg thinks, biting his cheek as if forces himself to actually study the rings laid out for him, there's so little difference between each style that  _ the wrong ring  _ and  _ the right ring  _ would be pretty much identical. They're all uncompromisingly masculine, almost brutally so—thick bands of metal, square-edged, the odd tiny square diamond embedded.

He lingers for a while over a band with a double milgrain design, just because it's not as undecorative as the others. He feels like Mycroft wouldn't hate it, at least.

But he's not sure he came in here for  _ 'I think you'll dislike this one less than the others'. _

It's too quiet in the shop. He can hear his own thoughts, and hear the strange loops of logic they're now making.  _ Maybe it's just me? Maybe these are all good. Maybe he'd love one of these.  _ He's starting to become aware that he's wasting the assistant's time —she's waiting for him to choose one, so she can put the others back and move on with her day. The pressure feels like a squeeze around the base of his skull. It's not comfortable.

As he rubs his car keys in his pocket for comfort, he starts to realise the decision he wants to make. 

Quietly, nervously, he checks his watch. He could reach a nearby city and get back in plenty of time. 

_ Check some other places first,  _ he thinks.  _ Shop around. See what else is out there.  _

He thanks the assistant with a cough, awkwardly telling her they're not quite right—he'll check elsewhere—and as she starts the process of returning the trays to their cabinet, he catches the very slight roll of her eyes. 

It's weirdly reassuring.

This shouldn't feel like he's inconveniencing a sulky sales assistant half his age, panicking that he's causing a fuss over a ring which isn't even the right one. That's not the beginning he wants for his engagement to the love of his life. Mycroft's ring will be waiting in a shop in the city for him—this isn't an errand, after all. It's a quest. He's going to do it right.

_ Plenty of time,  _ he tells himself, as he slams the door of the car and switches on the sat nav.  _ Loads of time.  _

*

The band is an easy enough choice. Mycroft has it narrowed down quickly- as Gregory has been wed before he doesn’t wish to give him the sort of plain band that would remind him of anything to do with Karen. That woman shall not intrude on this occasion in any way.

So, platinum, not gold. With interest. Brushed metal, perhaps, or….

“This is lovely.”

“Ah, I thought you might like that one. Woven while the metal is still hot.” 

Mycroft turns it over in his hand. The weight is right, the feeling of it… yes, this is very, very close. His finger traces over the intersections of the strands. Three in total. That makes sense. They started as three, after all. 

“Can settings be added?”

“Mm, that would be a bit complex, but… we should be able to manage something. You are thinking of gemstones?”

He nods. “May I browse the hoard?”

“You may.”

It takes him a while, steadily working through the selection of gemstones. Something small and tasteful would be best- masculine but a little novel. Unique. Worthy of being on Gregory’s hand.

He plucks one from the assortment, small and red. It will pair well with the platinum. Red on bright shining silver.  _ Like Gregory’s hair in the glow of a setting sun. _ His heart stills at the thought, suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that this is happening. He’s going to propose. He, Mycroft Holmes. Betrothed. 

And, good lord, that is another set of decisions to make, isn’t it? He could get down on one knee in the sunset, perhaps. By the lake? 

_ Anywhere he is. That is where I wish to be. Forever. _

“This one, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft swallows, ensuring his voice is steady, that his eyes have not been too much invaded by moisture. “Are there two more of this size? I… have an idea.”

*

It's two o'clock before Greg has figured out his mistake. A high street jeweller can only offer him high street engagement rings—and while some of them are beautiful, and some are even close-ish, he and Mycroft don't have that kind of bond. They've been through things other couples haven't. He doesn't want to give Mycroft something that a million other men could be walking around with right now. 

Exhausted, he stops at a cafe to get a panini and an enormous black coffee, consuming both as he throws himself on the mercy of Google. There's a few jewellers in the area offering the kind of custom service he needs. Relieved, he starts making phone calls.

An hour later, as he speaks to the final name on his scribbled list, with two more coffee cups empty at his side, Greg hears the dreaded words one last time:  _ two to four weeks.  _ He tries his now well-rehearsed plea, but it falls on deaf ears.  _ A long waiting list,  _ they say.  _ Not the sort of thing that is typically rushed.  _ He has a feeling that if you  _ knew  _ these people, if you were a favoured customer, they might be able to skip you straight to the front of the queue—but as it is, all Greg gets from them is a very gentle and subtle sort of cynicism, an inaudible accusation that he's lurching towards a decision he surely should have planned for months. 

_ You don't get it,  _ he wants to say.  _ I know I want this. I'm not rushing the decision, I'm rushing the ring—and I know the ring's important, but... _

Miserable, he asks Google to look again. Knowing there probably won't be time, he decides to check a city slightly further away, accidentally skipping off the name of the city and googling just,  _ custom engagement rings for men. _

In the absence of a location, online retailers rush in, clamouring desperately for his attention. 

As a small digital tray of rings appear, Greg's heart gives a funny thump. They look different, at least. Almost unconsciously he taps to see more. His phone screen fills to its edges at once, throwing a whole range of styles and prices at him—and there, right in the middle: there it is.

"Shit..." he whispers to himself. His eyes flash at once to the price; it's a little over his budget, but not by much at all. Heart pounding, he taps on the image, half-expecting to find himself taken to an abandoned URL—a  _ 'we have no more stock of this item'  _ page—a retailer out of reach somewhere in the States. 

The site that appears belongs to a small independent jeweller, based somewhere up in Scotland. All their pieces are inspired by medieval artwork and manuscripts—the marriage of a medievalist scholar from the US and her British-born wife, a talented gold and silversmith with many years' experience.

Greg takes a quick scan through the rest of their designs, finding nine or ten he knows Mycroft would love—but the one he keeps coming back to is the first one. The scrollwork looks almost like it's braided. It's beautiful. They offer engraving free of charge, and post by tracked delivery to anywhere in the world.

There's no turnaround period listed.

Barely able to breathe, Greg taps the phone number listed at the top of the site. 

A friendly American voice answers. It's clearly a home phone in a family house, TV somewhere in the background. Somehow, trying to speak around a jaw that wants to shake, Greg manages to get across what he's wanting—men's ring, website; platinum with scrollwork; proposing to his partner very soon. His throat grips as he reaches the important part. If they can't do it, he thinks, he'll wait. This ring is worth waiting for. It would be perfect if it could be soon, though—soon enough to ask while they're away.

"And—I know this might not be possible, but—I-I was sort of hoping for a really quick turnaround. Ideally in the next couple of days. I'm willing to pay whatever it costs. It's—god, I know it's daft, but I was planning to ask him while we're here on holiday and the ring's just perfect. Is there anything you can do for me?"

She asks a couple of questions; he can hear his answers being relayed from the phone to someone else in the room with her.

"No, no modifications. Just as it is on the site. He's a size T. Erm—maybe an engraving, if it doesn't take too long to do?"

They can do engravings within a day, she says. And...

As she tells him, a grin the width of the street spreads across Greg's face. He listens, hardly daring to believe it.

"—yeah? You've got one in stock? J-Jesus. Thank god."

He bites into his lip, grinning as she laughs. She asks him another question; his heart swoops in his chest.

"Yeah, I can pay for express postage. Tracked, signed. The works. Don't suppose you can send it in discreet packaging, can you? So long as it doesn't say 'medieval wedding rings' in big capital letters on the envelope, I should be able to get away with it."

*

“How long will it take to add the settings?”

“Mmm… for you, we can do it overnight. Shall we deliver it to your home?”

“Ah- no, actually, I am returning to the country shortly. I shall arrange for Anthea to pick it up and have it run out to me.” Mycroft nods to himself.  _ Tomorrow, then, if things go as fast as they should. _

His heart beats faster, happily singing along to his cheerful mood.

Armand opens up a computer program. “Okay, so we’ll just go through the design here and see if everything is as you like. What sort of setting do you prefer? Gems raised a bit, or-”

“No- inset would be best. He is a police officer, so… I wouldn’t want anything to catch.” Mycroft is  _ blushing _ like a schoolboy telling his mates about a new crush.  _ Good lord. Do get it together, Holmes.  _ He can’t help it, though. Thinking of Gregory just makes him feel… fluttery.

“A police officer! Ahah, I see. Good- then a subtle bezel, I think, keep them within the metal, nice and safe and smooth.”

Mycroft watches the 3D model spin as Armand adds the small rubies in. He can see the inside of the band as it turns, pristine and polished. “Might there be time for an engraving as well?”

“Of course. What do you have in mind?”

*

Back at the house, Greg makes himself a black coffee and gets to work pretending he's been here all day. He leaves a couple of discs out of their cases by the DVD player, half-closes one of the curtains to screen out an afternoon glare he never actually experienced, then makes himself a quick sandwich and eats it, just to produce the right crumbs on the bread board and the necessary washing up. He has a packet of crisps as well, leaving it in the living room bin. He hates being deceptive like this, but he soothes himself with a reminder it's for the greater good—for the look on Mycroft's face when he sees that ring. 

_ Then we'll be engaged.  _

_ Jesus... planning a wedding. Our wedding. Our honeymoon. First holiday with my husband. _

As he starts putting dinner together, Greg realises he's reaching the stage of excitement where he wishes with all his heart he'd done all this weeks ago—months ago. He wants to be through this bit and onto the other side, the half of their lives where they belong to each other in law.

_ What'll we do with our names? Oh god. 'DI Holmes-Lestrade'.  _

He cooks something he can keep warm in the oven until Mycroft appears. There's a few extra sides he can throw together quickly—most of the prep is done, though. It means the house will smell of hot food when his partner gets here. 

_ Better settle myself.  _

Greg pours himself a glass of wine, heads to the living room and gets cosy on the sofa, putting on one of the later episodes of a series of Game of Thrones. He keeps an eye on his phone as he waits, curiously giddy. He wants to see Mycroft; he wants to hold him, kiss him. 

It's been a hectic day and it's passed quickly, but the need to feel Mycroft wrapped in his arms again has become almost overpowering. 

_ Then tomorrow... try to hide delivery of an engagement ring from the cleverest guy on the planet. _

_ Can't be that hard, can it? _


	17. Chapter 17

It feels strange to be heading back to the lake house without the ring in his pocket- but it must be perfect, and perfect takes time. Mycroft can wait, even if he will struggle to be patient about it.

He pays a brief visit to their house before he returns to the helicopter, fussing over a very chirpy Marmalade. “Only a bit longer, your grace. Daddy and I are having a nice holiday. And I- am planning to ask him to marry me.”

Mycroft has no idea why it makes him so emotional to share that with his cat, but he finds himself holding back tears all the same. Marmalade trills and shoves her head into his palm.

“I thought you would approve. Do you want to see the ring?” He holds out his phone so she can look. The design is buried under three levels of security to prevent any unintended access, and here he is showing it to a cat. A cat who rubs her chin on the edge of the phone, purring. 

“Thank you. I hope he likes it.” He swallows down the threat of becoming more emotional about it- it’s almost as though there is so much happiness within him that it has to spill out in other ways. “Now- would you like a few Dreamies? Don’t tell Aunt Anthea that I am spoiling your dinner.”

A half hour later Anthea sends him off with a few files of “follow up” that tomorrow’s courier will ostensibly be retrieving. She shakes her head as the helicopter departs, shooting a text to Greg that himself is on the way back. In a way it’s good that they’re on holiday for this. She doesn’t think either of them could take the stress if they were attempting to work and propose at the same time. 

By the time the helicopter lands, Mycroft is feeling almost sleepy. The white noise of the ride has depleted his anxious excitement enough that he may, hopefully, be able to pass for  _ normal  _ when he walks inside. And he does, save for the hard grip he keeps on the folders as he marches inside, straight to Gregory to plant a firm kiss on those lovely lips. “Hello, love. I missed you.”

*

After twenty minutes of worrying he'll look guilty as hell as Mycroft walks through the door, all Greg feels upon sight of him is joy. The worry vanishes in half in a second; all thought of deception goes with it. There's only the heady thump of his heart as the man he loves comes towards him, home at last.

He's beaming before Mycroft's even reached the sofa. He leans up happily to meet his lover's kiss; his fingers curl around Mycroft's tie as their lips come together. Slyly, trying not to grin as they kiss, he tugs Mycroft down to join him on the sofa, permitting a slight fumble to put aside the folders.

"Is that homework?" he murmurs into the kiss, sliding both hands beneath Mycroft's jacket. He coaxes Mycroft idly into his lap. "Mmhmm. Missed you, too. C'mere. Need to warm you up."

*

“Mm. Just a little light reading before bed.” Mycroft cannot help smiling back- he likes it when Greg is a little demanding of him, and manipulating him by his tie is always an easy way to send a thrill through him. He lets himself be guided, settling onto Gregory’s lap like there is no better seat in the world.

“Did you have a restful day, lovely?” he murmurs into the side of Greg’s lip, shifting his kisses to the line of Greg’s jaw. “Luxuriate in every comfort?”

Nuzzling his nose against Greg’s neck and inhaling feels like home.  _ Mine. So close to mine forever.  _ Mycroft hadn’t been expecting to want to cling so, but he does- just to touch Gregory is a gift he would like to appreciate every day he can.

“Should I be worried your warming me up might burn the source of all those lovely smells in the kitchen?”

*

_ Fuck, I love it when you're like this.  _ Greg's arms wrap right around Mycroft, holding him as close as possible, relief and comfort thundering gently through his system. He has the strange urge to crumple Mycroft's clothes and ruffle his hair.  _ Want to scrub the work off you,  _ he supposes. He hums with unconcealed pleasure as he rubs Mycroft's back through his shirt and waistcoat, reacquainting himself with the feel of his lover in his arms.

"It's all set on low," he murmurs, as he rests his head back against the sofa, offering Mycroft better access to his neck if he wants it. "I wasn't sure when you'd be home. Better safe than sorry."

His palms slide down Mycroft's sides, pausing to flex a little restlessly around his waist.

"M'tempted to have a word with your professional contacts. Maybe other people've got room in their schedules for light reading before bed. You and I usually have better things to do."

*

“Oh yes? Shall I have my calendar corrected accordingly? Every evening entirely at the disposal of Gregory Lestrade. No interruptions.”

Mycroft trails his nose against the soft skin offered to him, then back down again with a layer of kisses. He can feel Greg’s hands, warm even through the fabric, rustling it.

“You are going to force me to have this suit pressed again, aren’t you.” 

He emphasizes it with a little nip just above the collar line of Greg’s shirt, the rest of him curling as much as he can into Greg’s lap, like he will be safe and warm so long as he can remain within the bounds of Greg’s arms. 

“Of course, being at your disposal before bed often means being at your disposal before dinner. Or lunch. Occasionally breakfast. You’re very lucky I am used to a demanding schedule.”

*

Greg shifts restlessly as Mycroft nips him, just about managing to turn his groan into a soft in-breath. This is starting to get a little interesting. He's still not sure where this very physical need to touch and hold Mycroft has come from—the separation, obviously, but it's manifesting itself in a quietly animal way. It's almost possessive.  _ Mine. Need to check you over. Get my scent back on you. _

"You say it like you get nothing out of it," he murmurs, running his hands down Mycroft's back again. Slyly they begin to untuck Mycroft's shirt. "Happen to think I make the inconvenience worth your while..." 

With the fabric loosened, he dips his fingers beneath and lets them taste Mycroft's skin, stroking, savouring his lover's warmth. 

"Mmhm. Why're you still in so many clothes? I thought you missed me."

*

“Hmph. A certain someone pulled me onto the couch before I was able to shed any. A veritable ruffian, as it happens.”

Mycroft’s hands flex in Gregory’s shirt, savoring the feeling of his lover’s fingertips roving his back. This cannot be the routine every time they are separated, or their working lives will become entirely untenable- but as they are on holiday, with the entirety of the day available for any leisure, it feels nice to indulge.

_ And tomorrow, I shall ask you to be my husband. _

His lips wind back to Greg’s, the kisses they offer soft and fond as he rucks up Greg’s shirt enough to brush the soft skin beneath. Mycroft feels happily peaceful in his love’s arms, enough to be more than a little cheeky. 

“Tell me, is there a certain number of items I shall need to remove to demonstrate how much I missed you? Or would you prefer a more physical demonstration of my affection?”

*

Greg hums his quiet pleasure into the kiss as his lover strokes his stomach, reaching to begin slyly undoing the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat. 

"All the items," he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and soft. He likes this waistcoat—the buttons are easy, one deft slip between finger and thumb. Some of Mycroft's waistcoats are like bloody fortresses. They take focus and diligence to get through; it's nice to get the thing open without needing to concentrate. "Won't say no to a physical demonstration, of course..."

As he gets the waistcoat open, he strokes it apart and slides his hands beneath the fabric, easing around Mycroft's waist. They cup his rump snugly; they pull Mycroft nearer, pressing their hips together.

"I adore you," Greg says, softly. Their lips stroke. "Thought about you every minute."

*

“As I did you,” Mycroft murmurs, meeting Greg’s lips in kind. “My beautiful love.”

He leans back, using Greg’s tight grip on his arse to arch his shoulders away, making a show of steadily undoing the buttons of his shirt. It feels like offering Gregory a new aspect of himself, despite all they’ve already shared.  _ A show. Just for you. _ In tandem, he grinds his hips down a bit, teasing. Part of the appeal is in Gregory’s voice- Mycroft simply can’t resist that low tone, whether it’s soft and affectionate or ordering and severe.

“I did not realize if I left you unattended for a few hours your hellion side would take over. Cooking a fine dinner and ensuring our appetites are sufficiently worked up for it. Very holistically decadent, Gregory.”

*

Greg's gaze flickers with unguarded delight as Mycroft leans back and takes care of the shirt for him. He watches closely, his eyes darkening and softening with each new button; his stomach aches at the increasing glimpses of skin.

"All part of the service," he says. His lips lift in a quietly pleased smile, the glitter in his eyes ever brighter. "Food tastes better after fucking someone who adores you. S'Science—hormones. Something like that."

He can't help but enjoy the gentle hint of lap dance this is giving him—a lap dance without the indignity of dancing, nor the horror of realising the oiled stranger gyrating merely feet from your face is likely half your age. He's still not forgotten Andy's stag do. He's not sure he ever will.

This is nice, though—his Mycroft, his lover, letting him watch—stoking him a little and teasing him. The appeal is enormous; it's easy to feel powerful.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, and presses his teeth against his lip. His hips rock up, hopeful, seeking just a little more pressure on his thickening cock. "You're just gorgeous. I'm the luckiest bastard in the world."

*

“I believe that is my title, lovely, as I am the one enjoying your visage every day.”

Mycroft grinds down a bit harder as he divests himself of his shirt, waistcoat, tie, and jacket, all of which are tossed with just a touch of showmanship to the closest armchair. He settles closer, running his hands under Greg’s shirt and pushing up until he has a satisfying view of the belly beneath.

“I like your theory. It may require rigorous scientific testing.” 

The entire evening could be spent watching this very expression on Greg’s face, glowing and happy, and Mycroft would be unable to come up with a better use for his time so long as he could see it.  _ I shall make you this happy forever, so long as it is in my power.  _ He leans forward, kissing the very spot on Greg’s lip that the hellion is currently biting. 

“I do think you are skewing the results of the study by biting your lip, darling. You know the effect it has on me.”

*

_ Oh, god. Mine. _

Mycroft's back feels as soft and appealing beneath Greg's hands as clean bedsheets; he's beautiful,  _ beautiful,  _ and tomorrow his engagement ring will be arriving here.

And he doesn't even know. 

It almost hurts, thinking about it. If the ring was in Greg's pocket right now, he'd ask. He'd have asked the moment Mycroft walked through the door. A hundred more opportunities will present themselves by the time they both fall to sleep, and the only thing stopping that is going to change soon.

_ And you'll be my fiance. We'll be able to tell them all. _

"I love you," Greg breathes, unable to help it. He leans up into the kiss, their lips brushing as his fingers flex against Mycroft's back. "I adore you. Test anything you want on me, darlin'. It'll work."

Gently his hands ease downward, curling either side of Mycroft's hips. With a careful slow pull, then another, he coaxes Mycroft to move with him—to rock together slowly, rubbing, teasing what is on Greg's mind.

*

Mycroft sighs contentedly, almost a soft moan, as the burgeoning thickness beneath him nudges into the crease of his trousers. It’s comfortable, and easy, and almost relaxing to settle into it, letting the initial rush of pleasure drift through him.

He pulls up on Greg’s shirt, easing it off and settling back in to kiss him, skin to skin, chest to chest. There’s no rush. The house smells of warm, delicious food, Greg himself bears the gentle traces of their now mostly shared shower products. It’s all the things Mycroft would consider  _ home _ combined into one.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“I love you too, Gregory. Endlessly.”

He lets himself rock, slow and steady, guided by Gregory’s hands and humming his pleasure into his lover’s mouth. It’s lovely to feel each other grow in want, even as his own trousers shift from merely tight to slightly oppressive. Smiling into the kiss, he undoes the button and slowly lowers the zip, freeing himself from the pressure.

*

"Darlin'," Greg whispers into the kiss, with a shiver. His fingers flex. "Oh, darlin'." He can feel heat gathering beneath his skin, everywhere they're touching; this feels so slow and easy and quiet that it's killing him a little. He doesn't want it to ever stop. "C'mere, love. Let me look after you."

Gently, as tenderly as if they've got all night, he strokes his fingertips around to Mycroft's stomach and down to his open trousers. He frees Mycroft from the fabric into his hands. His touch stays careful and light for now, just gently easing back and forth to feel Mycroft hardening for him—barely pleasuring yet, simply touching.

Between strokes of his mouth, he murmurs against Mycroft's lips.

"We rush this bit sometimes, don't we? Too eager to get into each other." His gaze burns softly, his eyes heavy-lidded as he eases back just enough to look up at Mycroft. "Forget how good it is just to feel you."

*

Mycroft’s lips part, his pleasure audible in happy sighs that match each gentle pass of Gregory’s hands along his thickening hardness.  _ Caring. Devoted.  _ It’s softly attentive, really.  _ How does he constantly find new ways to make me feel so loved? _

Perhaps Mycroft will have to ask him. After they are wed.

“It is difficult not to be eager with you, love.”

For once, he doesn’t thrust up demandingly. He just feels what Greg is offering him as it is, this low, slow simmer of caresses. A lover’s hand, the telltale shape of his cock pressing gently into Mycroft’s arse from below- and somehow it’s still  _ comfortable. _

He wets his lower lip, gazing back at Gregory with reverent affection. His hands stroke over the bones of his cheek, his jaw, cupping it like he is holding the most precious thing in the world- because he is.

“You are simply too perfect for me, in body and soul, my love. I am compelled to join with you in every possible manner. It is challenging to resist, Gregory.”

*

Greg's lips curve; he tilts his head just a little, kissing the side of Mycroft's thumb. 

"Then don't," he murmurs. His eyes close with contentment. As he speaks, his mouth brushes Mycroft's skin. "Don't resist. There's nothing in my life I wouldn't give to you... nothing I wouldn't share with you. I want to wrap every bit of it around you."

It seems like such a long time since he first touched Mycroft intimately this way, learned the shape of him. Stroking like this pulls all the focus into Greg's fingertips and helps him feel properly, slows the world right down. It means it's like the first time again, gentle and exploratory—almost reverent. 

Each of Mycroft's quiet sighs tighten something in his chest.

"You know that bit, in old wedding vows? Don't think they even use that version any more." He circles his thumb, slowly, around the crown of Mycroft's cock.  _ "'With my body, I thee worship'..." _

He holds Mycroft's gaze, his eyes soft. 

"Whoever wrote that, loved someone like I love you."

*

_ It nearly feels like vows, doesn’t it.  _ Not conventional ones, of course- Mycroft isn’t aware of any ceremonies that require the participants to be partially nude and gently stroking one another’s cocks, though there is probably some ancient rite not far off from a time people were more open about who they coupled with.

He slides his hands down, slipping one between them to dip into Greg’s trousers, undoing them and freeing his lover’s cock.  _ I want to feel you. Feel you as you feel me. _

“As we love each other.”

Mycroft kisses Greg again, soft and gentle, and traces his lips over his cheek and ear, like he’s studying to recreate Gregory’s visage in a painting from kisses alone.  _ Love you. I love you.  _

_ I shall marry you. My husband. You’ll be my husband. _

He pauses at Gregory’s neck, keeping his face hid in his love’s shoulder, the surge of emotion he feel released in a quiet, breathy sigh that isn’t terribly different from the ones brought on by each soft stroke of his cock. As he fights the tightening of his throat and the threat of welling wetness in his eyes, he concentrates on his hand and the weight of Greg’s cock within it, gently wrapping his fingers and stroking.

“Oh- Gregory….”

*

_ God—  _

Greg's hips lift gently into Mycroft's touch as his lover frees him, aching a little at that very first brush of fingers. It's enough to cause his breath to stutter. With a silent lungful of air to settle his heart, he eases himself to sit still again, determined this won't be rushed. It's almost not even about the pleasure. The pleasure is an echo caused by something else; this is rest and reunion as much as it is sex.

As Mycroft hides away against his shoulder, Greg feels his heart give a distinct thump against his ribs. He wraps his free arm gently around Mycroft, brushing a hand up his back into his hair, and though it restricts somewhat the gentle stroking of their cocks, the quiet half-cuddle is desperately comforting.

He tilts his head to the side, to kiss Mycroft's hair. 

He noses a little of it aside to reach his ear.

The things he croons into it are soft—quiet love and reassurance, little murmurs of praise, interspersed with the very gentlest of feather-kisses. Greg barely has to think or guide his thoughts; the words simply come of their own volition. They roll like gentle waves from his mouth, lapping tender nonsense and affection slowly into Mycroft's ear as they touch each other and their breathing deepens. He tells Mycroft there's no luckier man on earth than him; he tells Mycroft that their few months together have made him happier than all the four decades which came before. 

Unafraid, and so close in this moment he can almost hear Mycroft's heart beating against his own, he tells Mycroft they'll never be apart—not properly, not ever again. A few hours, a few days here and there.

"—and it won't mean a thing, darlin'... we'll always come home to each other. We'll always have this. I'll always want to hold you in my lap like this, touch you like this, listen to you breathe for me. Nothing's ever gonna come between us. Nothing in the world."

*

Mycroft lets himself get lost in the words. They blend with the gentle friction on his body, a merger of desire and devotion and love. It’s not fully reasonable, he knows, to promise durations. There will always be cases and conflicts, crises caused by nations and wayward brothers. But to always come home to each other, no matter how long it takes- that is one he can keep.

“Always, my love. Always home to you.”

It’s as good as vows. Even without the rings, without any binding legal promise- it’s honest. It’s true. 

It’s all Mycroft can ask for in the world.

“I want to make you happy, Gregory. I want to be happy with you. For- for another four decades, perhaps,” he adds, murmuring into Greg’s shoulder.

He could stay like this for an age, whispering love to each other and feeling, instead a tightening pressure of  _ need _ , almost a quiet simmer of arousal. Mycroft loses track of how many adulations he offers in return that Greg has offered him more love than he ever thought he might have, that Gregory makes him want to share, want to open himself in every way to deepen their connection.

His breath shifts almost without him realizing it, so slowly does the pressure in him build under Greg’s careful, slow, almost teasing stroke.

“I love you- I just love you- so much, Gregory, I love you-”

*

_ Getting closer.  _ Greg knows that building depth to Mycroft's breath. He's heard it hundreds of times now. He hums softly, noses at Mycroft's jaw and very gently wraps his hand into a circle, giving Mycroft a sleeve of fingers to fuck and find what he needs.

"I love you too, darlin'..." His hand moves up and slowly down again, as gentle as ever but with rhythm now and steadiness, a stroke Mycroft can rely on. "Nice, mm? Just settling in my lap? Think I need to make you come like this more often... just cuddle and touch... soothe you after your busy days..."

He takes Mycroft's hand from his own rigid cock, transferring it instead up to his shoulder.

"You first," he whispers, and brushes a warm lick behind Mycroft's ear. "Is this enough, with my hand like this? You can have my mouth if you like, love."

*

“It will be enough.” Mycroft exhales shakily, lifting his head to survey Gregory’s face, his expression open and loving. “I'd like to kiss you. Hold you.”

His hand, so gently moved, slips into Greg’s hair and toys with it gently as he presses their mouths together. It doesn’t matter how long they stay like this- Mycroft lost track of time what could be hours ago. Or minutes. Or days. Regardless, he lets himself be lost again in Gregory’s touch, his lips, his hair.

It’s a perfect blend, and though his orgasm builds like a slow simmer rather than a crashing wave, Mycroft enjoys it. One hand curls in Greg’s hair, the other on his shoulder, as Mycroft gets close. His lips part, moaning and panting into each kiss.

When the peak hits, it’s Greg’s name he’s gasping, rocking gently in his lover’s lap to fuck himself in an even pace with the hand guiding him.

*

"There, darlin'... there... that's it..." As he feels Mycroft spatter his bare stomach, a shudder of some curious empathetic relief coaxes its way down Greg's spine. He finds himself panting back to Mycroft, moaning softly, so focused on his lover's orgasm that it feels in some way like his own. Mycroft is utterly beautiful like this. It's almost unreal, how perfect he looks.

_ And no-one gets to see it but me. _

_ No-one else. No-one ever.  _

Greg keeps his movements gentle and careful as Mycroft's still coming, angling his lover's cock to keep the mess of his orgasm up on Greg's belly. Skin will be easier to clean than trousers or the couch. It's oddly nice to feel, too.  _ Making a mess on me,  _ he thinks, smiling into the slow kiss with which he settles Mycroft.  _ Just where it should be. _

When Mycroft's breath seems to steady a little, Greg reaches quietly to one side for the box of tissues beside the couch. He takes a few one-handed, kisses Mycroft's cheek and gently cleans his lover, stroking up the most of the mess. 

He tends to Mycroft first, then tidies up himself. 

"You know it's magical, watching you do that?" he murmurs, as he tosses the tissue into the wastebin by the television. His arms slide around Mycroft's waist. "You're gorgeous. You're everything I ever want."

*

Mycroft sinks into his partner’s arms, sated and a little blissfully dreamy. “And you are wonderful, Gregory,” he whispers in return. “Perfect.”

_ I cannot wait to spend my forever with you. Only you. _

He nearly says it, so strong is the current of blissful hormones. But it isn’t time yet.  _ Soon. So very soon.  _ Then he will be able to tell Gregory in full every time he has the urge.  _ Yours. Forever yours. _

Though he lingers languidly in Gregory’s arms, it isn’t long before he nuzzles at his love’s ear. “And for you, lovely? I cannot leave you unattended.” He offers a soft, slow kiss along Greg’s jaw. “How can I bring you off, darling? Any way you like. I want to see you come as well.”

*

A shiver eases across Greg's lower back. He tilts his jaw into the soft kissing, letting his eyes close. Gently he takes hold of one of Mycroft's hands.

"Think I want like this," he murmurs, as he wraps it back around his cock. Immediate, comfortable pleasure stirs through his abdomen; he moans a little, swallowing, and lets go of Mycroft's hand to let his lover stroke him. "Kiss me?" he breathes.

It doesn't take long. The comfort of this moment, the gentle meld of their mouths and his lover's practiced touch combine to leave Greg's body all too eager for pleasure, yet relaxed enough to let it come with ease. From day one, Mycroft has known just how to touch him like this. He feels like he imagines a violin must feel, in the hands of a master musician; treasured, safe, just right.

When he comes, it's with a muffled moan into Mycroft's mouth and a sudden outbreak of panting, his cock jerking and welling over in Mycroft's hand. His back arches up from the couch a little; pleasure contorts his face.

"F-Fuck—My—" 

*

“Yes, come for me- Beautiful, darling….” Mycroft strokes him through it, watching his love’s face. Greg’s expression is so open when he comes, the moment of desperate relief so clear that Mycroft imagines he feels the aftershocks of it in his own core.

He tidies up between soft kisses on Greg’s cheeks. There will be no rushing here, thanks to his partner’s thoughtfulness about dinner. Tonight, perhaps, they’ll listen to music and read, or watch something quiet.

_ Practicing for retirement. _

The thought almost makes him laugh- but they aren’t  _ that _ far off the day when work will no longer have such a thorough hold on their schedules. Mycroft is not sure  _ his  _ employ will ever truly end, but there shall be a point when he is called  _ less. _

_ And I shall spend all that is left of my time with you. _

For a while he just holds Gregory, waiting for his love’s breath to steady. “Shall we eat, darling? We have a hypothesis to test.” Mycroft presses his lips to Greg’s. “Tell me what you require to ready it. I want to help.”


	18. Chapter 18

Greg's pretty sure that the delivery of the ring next morning classes as an actual miracle. 

He'd been worrying about it while cooking breakfast, trying to figure out some story he could tell Mycroft for having a parcel delivered here, signed for, express post. He hates the thought of lying, even for innocent reasons—and it's a simple statement of fact that Mycroft is not only smarter than he is, but also lies professionally to other professional liars. The odds are seriously stacked against Greg. 

He almost wonders if he should ask Mycroft on a walk as soon as the ring arrives—admit it's a present, say he wants to give it to Mycroft by the lake. It means he'll spend the entire day on red alert ready to propose, which is a little horrifying, but at least he won't be keeping secrets from Mycroft from long.

Then, as Greg takes the rubbish out after breakfast, he spots a van pulling up at the end of the path. A courier gets out—a courier holding a clipboard.

"Greg Lestrade?" she says, smiling.

By the time Greg slips back through the front door, he's got a parcel containing an engagement ring hidden beneath his dressing gown. 

Mycroft is still sitting at the kitchen table finishing his breakfast, safely out of sight of the windows.

_ Christ. Luck on my side.  _

Greg leans down and kisses Mycroft on the shoulder, gently. 

"Got something horrible from the bin all down my arm," he says. "I'm going to go hit the shower, is that okay?" He nudges Mycroft's temple with his nose. "Welcome to join me, when you're done..."

Upstairs, Greg wastes no time. He gets the package open within three seconds of entering the bedroom, opening the box to see the ring. 

_ Oh god. Oh fuck.  _ It's beautiful—it's so perfect he just wants to sit here and stare at it, gaze it, studying every tiny piece of it. He checks the engraving, his heart pounding. It's all just as he asked. 

It's Mycroft's engagement ring.

_ Oh Christ.  _

They could be engaged, five minutes from now. Everything's ready. All Greg needs to do is ask.

He can't stare at the ring for long. Mycroft could be upstairs at any moment, and there'll be time to admire it later—when it's wrapped around his fiance's finger. He thinks briefly of hiding the ring somewhere, then realises that when the right moment arrives, he won't be able to ask Mycroft to wait a minute while he goes and fetches something.

He slips it instead into the pocket of his jeans, ready for the day. These jeans are the kind with an ordinary standard pocket, then a tiny square sub-pocket tucked inside it—and Greg always wondered why on earth they made them like that, one daft tiny pocket hardly big enough to hold a pound coin. 

Now he knows. It's an engagement ring pocket, secure and safe, ready for the single most important moment of his life.

It's a little terrifying to leave his jeans just draped across the bed with something so precious hidden inside them. As he starts up the shower and steps beneath the spray, Greg's already envisioning all manner of disasters befalling the ring in his absence—not least of which is Mycroft finding the bloody thing. 

_ Breathe,  _ he tells himself gently, and leans against the shower wall.  _ We're getting engaged today. It's alright. You know he wants to be with you. You know you want to be with him. We'll have a nice day together, just enjoy the time, and when the moment's right, we're ready. _

The last few months have been crammed so full of disaster—one thing and then another, Karen and Sherlock and the Fentons, a lifetime's worth of fuss in half a year. Greg's life is unrecognisable now. He was so injured, so scarred, and somehow it all still happened. They fell in love all the same. 

All the chaos brought them to this day right here. 

Asking Mycroft to marry him, after all they've overcome, is really just one final step in a long and winding journey somewhere wonderful.

_ And it's happening today. _

Greg reaches for shampoo, trying not to grin to himself alone in the shower like an idiot.

_ Today I make you mine. _

*

The couriered dropoff arranged by Anthea arrives just as Mycroft is tidying the kitchen from breakfast. A simple dark car, it shows no signs of bearing anything more important than the stack of papers Mycroft is returning. The driver is offered a simple thank-you, nothing that Mycroft would not give to anyone else- he has no idea what the small package he’s handed off holds.

Out of deference to his neighbors, Mycroft waits until he is back inside before bouncing excitedly through the kitchen like a child who’s been offered a present when it isn’t even a holiday. The box is small, small enough to discreetly hide- though with Greg in the shower, he can permit himself to stare at it for a bit, marvelling at the glimmer of the metal and the small gems.  _ Perfect. _

It will shine on Gregory’s hand, where it belongs. 

Mycroft practically skips up there stairs, controlling himself only with a great degree of effort as he enters the bedroom. He must stop smiling. Why can’t he stop smiling? Even Gregory will see straight through him.

He grins as he finds the jacket he means to wear today and slips the tiny box into the inside pocket, where he’ll be able to feel its gentle weight against him.  _ Today. Any time today. _

Exhaling to at least stop nearly giggling, Mycroft cracks the door to the bathroom and finds himself hit with a pleasant burst of steam.  _ Well, at least he will not be able to see me behaving like a loon.  _

“Is there still room for me, darling?”

*

Greg's rinsing the last of the suds from his hair as he hears the bathroom door. He turns, grinning, and opens the shower an inch or two in invitation.

"Always," he says. "Get in here. I've been bored without you."

As soon as he has the opportunity, he pulls Mycroft into a hug with a pleased little hum. He loops his arms around his lover's waist, kisses the side of his neck, and angles them both to make sure Mycroft isn't being disturbed by the spray. 

"What d'you fancy doing today, love? Anything? Nothing?" Greg's hands stroke in slow circles over Mycroft's back, enjoying the wetness of Myc's skin against his palms. "It looks like the sun's back out this afternoon. Maybe take a walk somewhere?"

*

“Bored? Such a tragedy.”

Mycroft rests his cheek on Greg’s shoulder, smiling. He’s not in a rush to get clean, but a single reach gains him some pleasantly-scented shower wash that he glides between them, chest to chest. Gregory can rinse again if he must.  _ Elsewise neither of us may ever be ready. _ And Mycroft has plans for today. 

_ Very great plans. _

And it seems Gregory has inadvertently played directly into his hands. An outdoor walk will be perfect. All those lovely views, seeking just the right spot to finally drop to one knee….

Mycroft drops the bottle. 

He swallows, hoping he isn’t blushing with too much exuberance as he bends to pick it up, mind churning as he attempts to sound casual.

“I would like a walk… perhaps a long one, to look over some of the boating areas? I should still like to take you sailing before we go, and we might be able to pick out the optimum route in advance from our higher vantage.”

*

_ Oh my god. Perfect.  _

_ And you don't even realise. _

"That sounds great," Greg says, fighting desperately not to grin like a lunatic. He can feel his smile tugging at its corners, wanting to get bigger, happier, stretching with the sheer size of the joy growing inside him. Mycroft doesn't have a clue how easy he's making this.  _ Christ, it's going to be perfect.  _ "I'll check the web, see if there's a nice route around the lake... I bet the views are amazing from the hills on the other side."

He looks down between them, smiling from ear-to-ear as the shower gel foams into rainbow bubbles in his chest hair. He scoops a little of it up so he can wash Mycroft's back for him, kissing the tip of his lover's nose.

"Go out for dinner tonight, maybe?"  _ Not like we'll be celebrating. Just... casual.  _ "We haven't tried the little bistro in the town yet. Might be nice after a long walk."

*

Mycroft makes a mild little hmming noise, but on the inside he is dancing. He did not want to infringe on any plans Gregory had for cooking to insist on a night out, that would raise far too much suspicion- but his lovely partner suggesting it himself feels like fate.  _ No dishes to tidy, nothing to prepare, just a relaxing evening together.  _

“That would be lovely.” He can’t help but smile back. Gregory looks radiant, happy and glowing under the relaxing water. This holiday has been good for him. For both of them.

_ And soon it will be even better. _

“I seem to recall they have an excellent dessert list including several tempting cakes. Chocolate, fruit… Battenberg.” He kisses Gregory back, a small peck on the cheek as he switches the body wash for some shampoo. “Not that I was  _ only _ paying attention to the dessert listing when we glanced at their menu, of course.”

*

Greg grins, taking the shampoo bottle gently from his lover's hand.

"I think I remember steak, if I'm right," he says, squeezing a little into his palm. He replaces the bottle on the shelf, gathers Mycroft into a one-armed hug and begins to work the shampoo through his hair. "Maybe get a bottle of wine to share..."  _ Or champagne.  _ "Feels like it's been a while since we went out for dinner."

He takes his time to massage Mycroft's scalp slowly with his fingertips, as gentle as he can be.

"D'you remember our first dinner out?" he says, his eyes bright. The memories make his heart feel as if it's growing inside his chest. "I think part of me was already in love with you."

*

“Mmmm. That’s because someone keeps making absolutely marvelous dinners and negating the need to go out entirely….”

Mycroft relaxes into his lover’s touch. It seems he will not be doing any of his usual ablutions himself, but as this version comes with a complementary massage and cuddle, he’s not likely to complain. Instead he wraps his arms about Greg’s waist, fingertips gently stroking along Greg’s back, full of fondness.

“I do, lovely. It was… I was quite besotted, myself.” Mycroft smiles, eyes glittering, wondering if there is any way he could be more in love now. 

“Meeting you at all… felt like the hand of fate was directly intervening to ensure we found each other. Perhaps Marmalade was a Moirai in a past life, spinning the web of fate for all the humans in the world. Guiding me to a man who would like to build his beaver den with a solitary squid like myself.”

*

_ Fuck.  _

_ Marry me.  _

_ Give me a second, I'll fetch the ring. It's in my jeans. Here, this is for you. Let's get married today.  _

_ I've loved you since I saw you. I'll love you 'til I stop existing. _

_ I love you. _

Greg's fingers skip in Mycroft's hair. It takes all his power not to curl them gently, gather Mycroft close against his shoulder and let the words come out of his mouth. They're going to be together for good, forever—and it's enough to thicken his throat past the point of speech for a moment. He concentrates on stroking shampoo through Mycroft's hair, well aware that his arms have tightened and the tremble in his hands will be clearly felt.

He doesn't mind. 

He waited half his life to have this moment with Mycroft, standing here in the shower.

The nuzzle he gives Mycroft's jaw is almost shy, overcome with emotion. He backs them gently beneath the spray and lets it rain down on them both, rinsing the suds slowly from his lover's hair. 

His lips brush Mycroft's ear. He murmurs beneath the patter of the water.

"I need to be with you. I'm just... i-it's just a fact. I'll never have enough of you. You're like air." He rests his head against Mycroft's shoulder, his eyes closing. The shower conceals the few quiet tears that escape them. "God. M'so glad you brought me here."

*

Exiting the shower without proposing is a trial. 

There’s soft murmurs, promises of love and affection, all somehow stronger than they’ve been before. Mycroft only musters the fortitude to refrain after picturing his brother’s sneering face if he were to deduce that Mycroft caved in the middle of a shower and dropped to one knee under the water, soap still lingering in his hair.

He can manage to wait. Just a little longer. But only a little.

They’ve dried off, and Mycroft is nearly finished getting dressed. His fingers trace the outline of the box in his pocket as he does up the buttons of his jacket.

“Might you be ready to go now?”

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear waiting any longer. At least if they’re walking, they’ll be moving toward this moment he’s desired with growing urgency for weeks now.

“We could take a light lunch with us. Walk as far as we like. Work up an appetite for dinner.”

*

_ Thank Christ.  _ Greg had been regretting his suggestion of this afternoon, trying to figure out how out on earth he could keep himself occupied until then. The truth is he's too nervous just to lie around together, watching films—and if he's close to Mycroft, with the ring in his pocket, he'll want to propose. 

If they're out walking, at least there'll be something to keep him busy.

"Sure," he says, trying to smile what feels like  _ the normal amount  _ of smile—not too big, not too giddy, but not keeping anything back. "No time like the present. We might want an umbrella with us, just in case, but... I think I can throw a lunch together."

He kisses Mycroft's cheek, heads down to the kitchen and gets a picnic bag out of the cupboard. He almost wants to take a bottle of bubbly with them, to celebrate—but it'd be heavy to carry, and it might tip Mycroft off.

_ Keep it cool,  _ he thinks, smiling to himself as he wraps sandwiches in cling film.  _ Keep it simple. Bubbly tonight at the restaurant. This is just a walk in the countryside with my boyfriend, with a picnic, and nobody's about to get engaged. _

"Myc?" he calls, pulling his walking boots on beside the front door, with the picnic bag now slung across his chest. "Do we need a map or anything, if we're going adventuring?"

*

Mycroft compulsively strokes the outline of the little box five, six, eleven more times before he can assure himself it will not fall out. As Greg packs their lunch he has just enough time to work himself into a quiet panic. It is unfathomable that he is this nervous. He knows Greg will say yes. He  _ knows. _ Yet somehow actually getting to the question itself is mildly terrifying.

“He’ll say yes,” he murmurs to himself, staring into the vanity mirror. “He loves me. I love him.”

He exhales, forcing the tension out of his shoulders.  _ Musn’t be suspicious. _

“I have one, darling,” he calls back. It’s an old one, one of the ones his parents kept for their friends who occasionally dropped by, but he doubts the lakes have changed formation much in the last twenty years. “And I shall also take charge of the umbrella.”

On a whim, he also liberates old binoculars from the same drawer the maps are in. Mycroft will likely look like some sort of wayward birder, between that, his umbrella doubling as a walking stick, and his country walking suit, but he doesn’t much mind. 

“Ready, my love?”

*

"Ready," Greg grins, straightening up from his boots. He opens the door and reaches for Mycroft's hand as they step through it, releasing his lover only to lock up the house behind them. The key goes into a side pocket of the picnic bag, along with his wallet. 

_ Oh god. We'll be engaged when we come back. Christ. _

_ Jesus, you'd better not say no... _

"I think you pull off the country gentlemen look better than me," he says with a bright-eyed glance, as they make their way along the path towards the hills. "I'm a bit less pheasants and tweed, a bit more Mountain Warehouse. Maybe I need some knee-high boots and a shotgun."

*

“Ah, we could scandalize the locals like that. They might think I’m having a tawdry affair with my gamekeeper.” Mycroft smiles teasingly, squeezing Gregory’s hand. “My extremely handsome gamekeeper.”

They meander for a while, hand in hand, watching for flowers and birds and the occasional rabbit, pausing to pass the binoculars back and forth when there’s something particularly pretty or interesting to observe. It will be challenging to return to basement windows and city streets after this.

Perhaps he’ll have to acquire a small plant for his office.

“Now, there is meant to be a bluff path this way….” Mycroft frowns at the map, which seems to contradict the lack of path before them. “Or there was, once. Hmmm. Perhaps they’ve moved the point of entry?”

*

"Yeah, looks like it—that's clearly the pond we passed a minute ago, there—so we're probably still on the right track. Someone's just shifted the gate."

Greg glances around, noting there are no signs suggesting it's now private land. Legally they'd be able to claim a well-intentioned error, even if they're not meant to be there.

"Luckily," he says, striding over to the fence, and hefts himself over it, "I'm feeling adventurous." The fence creaks; his boots hit the ground neatly on the other side with a thud. He grins at Mycroft over the barrier, holding out both hands. "C'mon. Over you hop in your tweed. I'll help."

*

Mycroft lifts a brow at the fence- his suit is not designed for such athletics. Still, he’s willing to place himself in Gregory’s hands, though he is obligated to protest through his smile. “If this ends in an undignified fashion I am holding you accountable.”

There had been a brief period of his life when he  _ was _ accustomed to a certain degree of more adventurous activity conducted in suits (in a very foreign clime, drink-in-hand sort of way), but those days have long past. Hauling himself up now feels a little farcical, even in Gregory’s confident hands.

“This does not feel entirely-”

With a sad creak, the wood gives. Mycroft’s foot slips and drops his weight entirely onto Greg, knocking them both into the nearest bush. Red-faced and promising himself he shall lay off the cake, he grows even redder as he realizes he has the urge to check the tiny box in his pocket.  _ Oh, god, what if he felt it?  _

He clears his throat, looking for a way to right them without additional injuries to any local foliage or alerting Gregory to the item he has to assure himself is still present in his pocket. “Are you, ah… unassailed by any branches, darling?”

*

_ Oh Christ—! _

Greg moves to catch Mycroft even before the fence has properly caved. In his haste to save the day, he takes more of Mycroft's momentum than he planned and only succeeds in staggering backwards into a bloody bush, dragging Mycroft on top of him. 

It breaks their fall, at least—and while there's a few twigs broken, no bones he can feel. 

Realising Mycroft is alright, Greg finally gives a first embarrassed laugh. He reaches up to comb several stray leaves out of his hair with his fingers; the strap of the picnic bag has twisted over against his neck.

"I'm fine, love—are  _ you _ okay? Jesus, my grand ideas... I must've weakened it jumping over. Does this count as 'undignified'?"

*

Mycroft chuckles, biting on his lip to try and keep his face serious, but it’s a challenge to do so with Gregory giggling beneath him. He takes a moment to run his hands over his jacket as he stands, ostensibly dusting himself off-  _ it’s still there. All is well.  _ His muscles steadily begin to unwind. 

“Definitively undignified, hellion.”

He holds his hands out to help Greg out of the bush, as is only fair considering his own misstep put them in it. Gently he plucks an errant twig from the strap of the picnic bag, dusting off his gorgeous lover from any leaves or dirt attempting to stow away on his person.

“But as we are over now, I shall save my retribution for later.” Placing his lips to Gregory’s knuckles, he smiles slyly. “Also, you have now volunteered yourself for the duty of finding a less adventurous route out.”

*

Greg finds himself suddenly glad there's no-one else around. God knows what they'd be accused of, if they were seen crawling out of a bush together giggling. He takes the opportunity to kiss Mycroft's cheek as they brush each other clean, still grinning, and now appreciating the thought he's just had a rare experience. There must be few people on this earth who've ever fallen into a bush with Mycroft Holmes.

_ S'why you're gonna marry me, darlin'. All these special times we've shared. _

"Think I remember my survival skills from scouts," he says, winding their fingers together with a wink. "There's only so lost we can get."

After ten minutes tracing the should-be path through the fields, Greg starts to wonder if they got the right spot on the map. It only seems funnier the more abundantly clear it becomes that they're lost: a seasoned detective and the powerhouse behind the British government, rambling hopefully through long grass with a vague idea that they'll some day arrive somewhere.

Greg decides at last the thing to do is get higher. They'll be able to spot the lake at least, and orientate themselves from there. 

It gets harder to chat, heading uphill; they grip each other's hands in lieu of conversation, out of breath and happy, climbing towards what might be a pretty viewpoint if they're lucky.

Halfway there, Greg pauses to dig a bottle of water out of the picnic bag.

"Here," he murmurs, his heart beating hard with both fondness and exertion. He nudges the water bottle gently into Mycroft's hands. "Sandwiches at the top? Brought a folded mat for us to lie on."

*

“Yes  _ please.” _

Mycroft tries not to be too greedy with the water, but he is very much looking forward to abandoning his jacket as soon as they are settled. He’s aware his cheeks are flushing from the heat this more vigorous hike is generating, but it is all fine- everything is perfect so long as he can hold Gregory’s hand for the duration.

“Earning... our lunch. And our dinner, I’d... imagine,” he pants.

The water feels heavenly, as decadent as the finest wine. Mycroft runs, sometimes- not as much now as he used to, now that he has Gregory to remind him he doesn’t need to worry quite so much about his shape- and has an absolutely indulgent amount of sex, but he has not found himself so physically exerted in quite some time. 

It might be the duration of it- after all, neither his runs nor the most vigorous of their activities in the bedroom usually last quite as long as it’s taking to make it up this hill. Yet still, Mycroft feels… good.

_ Quite  _ good.

He squeezes Greg’s hand as he hands the water back, his breath evening.

“I suppose I am quite lucky… that I have such a thoughtful partner… to plan a lovely hike and picnic….” Mycroft grins, exceedingly fond. “Albeit perhaps a longer hike than anticipated.”

*

"Paths are for cowards," Greg says, grinning, and lifts the bottle to his mouth.  _ God, when did water start tasting so good?  _ He wipes his lips with the back of his hand when he's finished, passing Mycroft the last two inches. "Go on, love. M'fine. We'll open the other bottle at the top."

It's worth the climb. The view is gorgeous; the lake shines like spilt silver far below, dripped into the valley. Greg gets the mat out straightaway. He hands Mycroft the second bottle of water, smiling, settles down beside him and lays back until his breath has evened.

The sky above is almost as beautiful as the lake below; it's hard to know what to look at.

"Want to eat?" he murmurs, fondly, pulling the picnic bag over to them. He smiles, watching Mycroft drink. "Brought some caramel blondies, f'you want. Crisps. There's a box of fruit salad, might be refreshing."

*

Mycroft sheds his jacket, setting it aside, and even rolls up his shirtsleeves and unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt. It’s not as though they’re in public, after all, the birds won’t mind a rather casual aspect, and the cool breeze feels utterly glorious against his reduced layers.

Once he’s a bit less sweaty he settles closer, resting his head on Gregory’s shoulder, idly plucking fruit from the salad and feeding it to both of them. The overlook has been well worth the trials getting there. A few boats drift below, and the clouds above are fluffy and white on their own sort of azure sea. He leans away to acquire the water bottle again, looking back to exchange a deeply fond look with Gregory.

It’s the very essence of contentment, of natural perfection, of-

_ Oh. _

Mycroft feels the shift as though time itself stills.

_ Now? Should it be now? _

The small box in his box is now a presence he is keenly aware of, like the weight of it has suddenly shifted.

_ Now? Will you? _

He breathes, and his lips part, hoping he has the words.

  
  
  



	19. Chapter 19

_ Oh. _

_ Oh god.  _

_ Look at you. _

It must have shown in Greg's face, that sudden realisation of the moment—lying here underneath the sky, feeling like they're the only two people in the whole world—feeling like that would be perfectly okay. 

It must have flashed in his eyes, because Mycroft has gone oddly still, staring at him. 

_ Oh god.  _

Greg can't wait any longer. He can't think of what to say—but he can't not ask. This is the moment. It's here.

He sees Mycroft start to speak—to ask if he's alright, maybe, to ask why he's staring—and it's that fear, the thought he's frightening Mycroft with his silence, that makes Greg brave enough to speak. 

"H-Hey," he says, shifting.  _ Oh, shit. Like we're strangers in a bar. Like I want your phone number.  _ "Hey, I—I know we talked about... y'know. The future. Together." 

His throat squeezes as he swallows; he can't pull his gaze from Mycroft's. He must look half-demented, staring, terrified, trying to talk like he's not on the verge of a heart attack. He can't breathe.

"I've... k-kinda been thinking."

*

_ He’s nervous- _

_ Oh, good lord. _

Mycroft’s pulse is so loud in his ears that he can scarcely process Gregory’s words. “Together,” he echoes, somewhat overcome.

_ The future. _ Yes, that is what he- what they-  _ Are you? _

It’s hard to keep his thoughts in order, but his hand is reaching into his jacket, where it lays nearby, slipping into the pocket and closing around the small box, palming it. It’s not subtle- for a man who was once trained in all manner of nefarious sleight of hand, this he cannot conceal, not really.

He’s not sure he wants to.

Mycroft slow turns his hand over, resting his palm on one knee, the box sitting squarely in the center.

He does, technically, have them both bended. It counts.

“I- I have as well, Gregory.”

*

There could be gunfire within a hundred metres. There could be sirens and helicopters and dogs, and Greg wouldn't have the faintest clue they were here. All he can see are Mycroft's eyes, looking back at him. 

_ You know.  _

_ You know I'm about to—you know this is—  _

He'll never quite understand how he manages to speak and reach to his pocket for the ring at once. His hand shakes like hell, and he moves so slow the shake gets worse, but then his mouth starts speaking and his brain finds itself panicking somewhere between the two. It's like his hand and his mouth planned in advance between themselves to take over here. They're going for it, before his brain can think and fuck this up. They're doing it. They've got this. 

"I want to build my life round you," he hears his own voice say—and even though it breaks, it keeps speaking. "I w-want you there in everything. Everything. I want my life to be our life." His fingers gather around the ring, slipping it free into his palm. He's still staring. It's only as his voice breaks again that he realises he's crying. "I've w-wanted it since the second I saw you. I love you."

*

“I- Gregory, I-”

Mycroft breathes, trying to steady his voice, because he can see the tiny hint of metal catching the light before it slips into Gregory’s hand, and Gregory is crying- Mycroft has no rational idea why, but it sets a rivulet free from one of his own eyes that he tries to wipe away on the back of his hand.  _ Together. Even this, together. Of course. _

“Gregory, I would consider myself blessed- absolutely blessed- to share all of our lives together. I should like to be there for you, and with you, in every way. I- cannot fathom a life lived without you.”

He opens the box, turning it to face his future husband. The ring glints there, dots of red marking the small stones tucked in the silvery band.

“Gregory… would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

*

_ Oh—  _

_ Oh, fuck— _

"Oh,  _ fuck," _ Greg sobs, and for the better part of a minute it's all the answer Mycroft gets, gasped against his shoulder five or six more times as Greg clings to him and cries. 

_ You want me. You want me to marry you.  _

He doesn't even know why it's somehow a shock, why he's crying.  _ We're getting married.  _ There's an engagement ring there in his hand, right now, ready to be given, and he's still sobbing as if this is entirely unexpected.

"I love you," breaks its way through the gasps of 'fuck'—then again, stronger,  _ "I love you," _ and he can feel Mycroft's box held between them, the ring waiting inside it. 

_ My ring.  _

_ My engagement ring. _

"I—I-I was gonna ask you..." He's crying harder than ever as he pulls back just enough to look down, opening his palm to show Mycroft the ring. For some reason it makes him want to laugh, just  _ showing _ it to Mycroft like this, and the rush of joy brings a fresh flood of tears along with it. "Fuck," he says, crying. "Please marry me. Please. I love you—I love you, I love you—" 

*

“Of  _ course _ \- yes, Gregory, yes, a thousand times yes.”

If he were looking on it from afar Mycroft might think it’s silly- two mature men clinging to each other, tearily, rings just lingering between them because they’re far too overcome to manage getting them on one another’s fingers. Mycroft cannot help himself, he leans forward, desperately kissing his answer into his partner- fiancé’s- lips.

“I love you. I love you eternally, Gregory. I would love to marry you.”

He has no idea how long they remain wrapped about each other, half-laughing half-crying on a picnic mat, before he manages to catch Gregory’s hand and work the ring out of its little cushion in the box. 

“If I may-” He traces his fingers down the line of Greg’s ring finger, ready to place the ring where it belongs. “I, ah- I had it engraved. I know- I know I have uttered the sentiment, but it is set in metal now.”

Mycroft turns it in the light, so the little letters on the inside of the band stand out.

_ Eternally yours. _

*

_ Eternally mine.  _

Those words will be wrapped around Greg's finger forever—put there by his husband, by the man who loves him. There will be a wedding day to plan. They'll be together on honeymoon, some day. 

They'll have to tell Marmalade.

It starts Greg crying again—no longer sobbing and gasping, but gently and with utter happiness. The thought of holding her, stroking her fur and telling her, puts a lump in his throat. 

He watches, overwhelmed, as the engagement ring settles snugly at the base of his finger.  _ Eternally mine,  _ he thinks, looking up into Mycroft's eyes. His own still shine with tears.  _ I adore you. _

The shake returns to his fingers as he offers Mycroft's ring for him to see. The font they've chosen is similar; the sunlight glints in the words. 

_ My heart, my home.  _

Trembling, Greg reaches for Mycroft's hand.

*

Mycroft exhales, soft and surprised.

“Oh. Gregory, this is-”

It’s beautiful, it’s endearing, it’s perfect. 

It’s everything.

“I love you,” he breathes, shoulder to shoulder with his fiancé, looking back and forth to each ring like he’s not entirely sure how they arrived here. But he is so very, very pleased that they did.

With only a small degree of pausing to allot for joyous weeping into their fruit salad, two rings find the fingers they are meant to be on. Mycroft can’t quite cease looking at his hand- it feels so very different to wear something there, and each fresh glance is a new surge of nearly unbearable pleasure.

He strokes his fingers through Greg’s hair, soothing even though he knows his love’s tears are happy ones. 

“I love you. I love you, darling. Thank you.”

*

Greg lets out a laugh through his tears, so full of joy and relief that he can't hold it. 

"Y-You don't need to thank me... Christ, I... I can't believe we both..." He pushes his hands across his face, chuckling, trying to staunch some of his tears. The glint of his engagement ring as he takes his hands away makes his heart skitter like a butterfly. "God, I'm glad. I'm glad we did. I'm glad we both got to—to know—god, I couldn't have waited another day to ask you. I'm so happy."

_ Plan a wedding. Together. Decide about surnames. Have our wedding day. Be married, be husbands, be a family—  _

"I-I love you. I love you so much." Greg nuzzles into Mycroft's neck, his face still damp, his shoulders shaking gently with relief. "I-It's been so weird, not telling you. Not telling you about how I'm excited to propose to you. Not telling you how much I wanna marry you. It's been so weird. God, I'm so glad I can tell you now."

*

“I am as well, Gregory. We can share it. We can- plan.”

Mycroft dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief- he keeps believing himself to be back under control until he looks at Gregory’s face again, and his eyes run anew. This surfeit of emotion is a new experience, and he’d always imagined such displays to be inherently embarrassing, but this is simply happiness, pure and unadulterated.

“Would you be wroth if I told you I did not fly back to London for work?” 

He holds Gregory close, almost as though some biological imperative has taken over, insisting they touch, insisting that they share as much contact as possible.  _ Perhaps this is what an animal bond is like. Mating for life.  _

It’s strange how certain he feels that there could never be anyone else. Only Gregory. If Mycroft had been asked a year ago he’d have said it was only a trick of chemistry in the mind.

He knows, now that isn’t true.

“Anthea did request my signature on some paperwork, of course, but I really went to see my jeweler- to have this made.” His fingers brush over the ring where it sits now, on Greg’s third finger. “I hope you do not mind a bit of subterfuge, my love, in service of a surprise.”

*

"God—" 

It hurts to smile this hard; it's worth it, though. 

"D-Darlin', I-I asked her to—" Greg's chest feels like it's heaving open. He burrows closer into Mycroft's embrace, grinning against his neck. "I  _ asked  _ her to call you back to London. Find some reason you had to be there for a day, so I could go ring-shopping. She said she'd arrange something. I felt guilty, thinking you were having your time wasted—but it was the only way I could think to sneak off and... Jesus, all along..."

Greg's left hand buries in Mycroft's hair, rumpling gently; the other tightens around his waist.

"I love that she let us," he mumbles.  _ We'll have to call her. Tell her. Tell Sally.  _ "H-Hey. Hey, we're getting married. You're gonna be my husband. M'your fiancé. This is actually happening."

*

“Mm. I am going to marry you. My betrothed.” Mcroft rubs his cheek against Greg’s hair. “My affianced. My love.”

He is running out of ways to properly thank Anthea for all her service. There are only so many things a raise can offer. At this point Mycroft might do better to simply purchase an island for her somewhere.

He’ll also have to make note that she is far sneakier than he’d thought, and he has rather high standards for such things.

Mycroft’s hands stroke over Gregory’s back lovingly. “Here- come down-” He leans back until his spine hits the mat and Greg can truly curl up on him, in his arms, as much as he likes. And, truth be told, as much as Mycroft likes. Watching the clouds like this is novel. Every single bit of white fluff in the sky might be a heart, or a flower.

“My intended,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers through his fiancé’s hair. “Future husband.”

*

Greg settles down on the mat close beside Mycroft, nestling into his side as if they're lying together in bed. He rests his cheek on Mycroft's shoulder; he grins, closing his eyes, as his fiance's fingers stroke through his hair. 

It's so nice to feel the sun.

It's nice to be alone together in this moment, sharing it with just each other. It'll be exciting to start telling people and spreading their happy news—but right now, this moment is just for the two of them.

Breathing in, slowly, Greg lets himself bask in his happiness.

"Would it be old-fashioned of me, if I wanted you there in my surname?" He strokes his fingertips over Mycroft's heart, tracing it in a circle through the fabric as the red gems in his engagement ring glint gently in the sun. "Don't mind which way round. I just... just wanna be as married to you as I possibly can be. Full-blown married. Married with bells on. D'you know what I mean?"

*

“Oh. Yes,” Mycroft breathes.

He’d hoped, of course, but to hear Gregory say it- that they will be bound not only by vows and residential address but even in name- it’s moving. His heart fills with the concept of it, near to bursting but somehow, for Greg, there will always be greater depths of love to plumb.

“Yes- I would like that as well. For myself. We should- we ought to share it.” His lip curves slowly. “Besides, Marmalade is already listed as such. Holmes-Lestrade. Clearly, we must honor her majesty’s wishes on the subject.”

It’s comfortably warm here, with his fiancé beside him, the day clear and bright, as though nature itself is offering its approval.

Mycroft could not possibly be happier.

“Is wedding with bells on a family tradition?” he asks teasingly. “That seems to be something I ought to be aware of. Though perhaps we might have some luck in belling both of our brothers to ensure they do not get up to mischief during the ceremony.”

*

"S'alright, love. Puzzle book for yours, crayons for mine, promise them jelly and ice cream at the reception if they're good. Job done." 

Greg smiles, his eyes bright as they move across Mycroft's face. He shifts gently to lean up and kiss Mycroft, stroking the tips of their noses.

"I don't care if there's mischief," he murmurs. "Not really. I don't care if Scotland Yard all get drunk and dance with their ties around their heads. I don't care if your mother thinks I'm not good enough for you. I don't care if my brother spends the whole time skulking at the back, scowling at the flowers and reading about the footie on his phone. So long as that night, I get to make love to my gorgeous husband in a bridal suite somewhere, with champagne on ice and roses by the bed, I'll be the happiest man in this world."

*

“I believe that can be arranged.”

Mycroft kisses back softly, sweetly, his hands cupping his fiancé’s cheeks. He’ll make love to his husband with every word, every action, every little sign he can manage to show how true his affection is.  _ From now until forever.  _

Gregory is right, truly nothing else matters. Certainly, Mycroft is going to get an earful from his mother for betrothing himself to a man she has not even met, but she will have to cope. Nothing she might say matters, not with Gregory’s ring on his hand.

“Do you want a large affair? All the bells and whistles and dancing, the, ah, ‘full-blown married’ package?”

*

Greg grins a little, nudging Mycroft's nose with his own. 

"Doesn't have to be large," he says. "Just... meaningful. Celebrate with the people who like us. Show the world we're happy, and we're together, and we love each other."

He presses a gentle kiss to Mycroft's lips.

"Might be nice to have a first dance together," he admits. "Or a first sway together, at least. And I... I wanna go away on honeymoon. Just like this week has been, just a little longer."

He feels his chest expand even thinking about it—Mr and Mr Holmes-Lestrade, somewhere gorgeous, looking forward to the rest of their lives.

"We'll only do it once," he says, with a smile. "You can work remotely, can't you? We'll get you an inflatable table for your laptop. You can just float it round the pool with us."

*

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “My staff shall be thrilled to be in Anthea’s hands once more, I believe. We can go for as long as we like. I still have ample holiday time accumulated and I am sure there are beaches with extremely limited connection to the outside world.”

His fingers trace Greg’s cheek as he smiles. Mummy might be irritated that he did not find in necessary to subject Gregory to her before the engagement, but Mycroft is confident she will come around when she sees them together, at least if all purported desire for her children to be ‘well-situated and reasonably happy’ is true.

“Shall I shock you if I reveal I received a degree of ballroom dance training at school? One of those terribly posh things, I’m sure.”

He brushes their noses together fondly. 

“I can teach you, if you like.”

*

_ Argh.  _ Greg's quite certain the squeak of his heart is audible.

"Of course you did ballroom dancing at school," he says, his smile ever broader. It only makes him love Mycroft more. "Sure. I'd love to learn... something nice and slow, maybe? Something I can't get too wrong."

He shifts gently, moving to settle on top of Mycroft and smile down at him, pressing soft little kisses just beneath his mouth. 

"Won't surprise you to hear my school  _ didn't  _ offer ballroom dancing," he says, grinning, and catches Mycroft's left hand in his right. He lifts it, pinning it gently beside Mycroft's head.  _ Wearing my ring. My fiance. Holy fucking shit.  _ "They struggled getting our heads around maths, to be honest... s'a miracle most of us could even read."

Their noses stroke; he steals another tender kiss.

"Hey... I love you. M'gonna love you for the rest of your life. Whatever comes along, I'll be there, loving you. No matter what."

*

“No matter what,” Mycroft echoes, utterly enraptured by how Gregory looks in the brilliant sunlight and how much love is in his fiancé’s voice, how soft his kisses are. He could lie here happily pinned and staring at Gregory for hours, simply marvelling that the universe has granted him the chance to meet and love a man like this.

“Sometimes it feels as though I have already loved you forever.”

His free hand cards through Greg’s hair, each strand catching the light as it moves, like a soft silvery halo.

“I will happily love you for another forever as well.”

*

_ God. The things you say. _

"Me too, darlin'," Greg whispers, watching his partner gazing up at him. Mycroft's fingers feel as gentle through his hair as a summer breeze. It's heavenly. "Feels like we met and something was put right in the universe... something I didn't really realise was wrong..."

He tilts his head into Mycroft's stroking, kissing his fingertips as he keeps hold of Mycroft's gaze.

"Can't wait to see how it feels to hold my husband's hand," he says, softly. He bites his lip. "I've got a feeling it's gonna blow my mind."

*

“Your husband shall look forward to it,” Mycroft murmurs happily. “My future husband.”

Rationally, he knows it will take planning and they’ll want to do it properly, with guests and family and witnesses they know, but part of him wants to see if there’s a local courthouse that will take them now, bless their rings as ones of marriage and send them on their way as men unified, forever, with every vow they can think of.

They’re going to be utterly insufferable at dinner, but Mycroft hardly cares about that. Not when there’s Gregory’s lovely eyes to view, and his hand to hold.

“Mmm. ‘My husband will take the steak,’ and ‘have you met my husband, Gregory?’” Mycroft grins. “I shall content myself with ‘fiancé’ for now, however. I hope you are prepared to hear me use the term with some frequency.”

*

"God... I want that, darlin'. Please. I want the whole bloody world to know." Greg's heart is leaping already at the thought of dinner tonight—their first meal together as an engaged couple, candlelight and wine, each other's eyes. "We'll start telling nearest and dearest tomorrow, maybe? Keep today for us?"

He leans down, kissing the tip of Mycroft's nose.

"Otherwise we'll spend all night answering text messages." A thought occurs; it makes him grin. "Maybe we could tell one particular nearest and dearest tonight—or two of them, I guess—seeing as Anthea will have to set up the skype call for her..."

*

“Mmm, I think that is a splendid idea. Extra Dreamies for her grace in celebration and Anthea may continue to raid our supply of good wine.”

Mycroft tilts up, stealing a kiss while his betrothed is conveniently so close.

“And we shall open the floodgates to the rest tomorrow. Though… perhaps I shall wait a few days for my parents, lest they elect to cut their vacation short and come directly here to interfere as much as possible.”

He blinks as he leans back and Greg is not longer shielding him from the sun. In the clearing they’ve found there is not much in the way of shade… which may prove to be a problematic matter in a bit, given Mycroft’s pallid complexion.

“As much as I should like to remain here for hours, love, I do think I may be beginning to burn. Might we relocate to the shade? Or perhaps we can meander down to the water before we head into town.”

*

"My English rose," Greg murmurs, fondly, leans down and plants one last kiss on the tip of Mycroft's nose. "Can't have you burn." 

He eases off Mycroft gently, gets to his knees and offers both hands to help Mycroft up. Chivalry aside, it allows an easy transition into a sneaky cuddle once Mycroft is up on his feet. Greg nestles happily into his arms; when he pulls back, beaming, the sun catches on every strand of silver in his hair. It turns his eyes a warm and deep shade of chestnut, his cheeks still flushed from their climb to get up here.

His gaze rests nowhere but Mycroft's face, full of love and joy.

"Let's head down to the water first," he says. "Make our way back towards town... then... I  _ think _ you have a dinner date with your fiance, darlin'." He winks. "And he's kinda excited."


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft comes out of his sleep slowly, smiling at the gentle weight of the ring on his third finger.  _ Mine. My fiancé. _

He attempts to stretch, to roll over and nuzzle into Gregory’s warmth.

Neither motion, it seems, is possible.

There’d been some shifting about earlier, he remembers. Gregory got up and told him to go right back to sleep, that he’d be back in a minute. Seeing as he so rarely sleeps in, Mycroft had taken him at his word and drifted off, only recalling some quiet murmurings and rustling in the blankets.

Now he is beginning to suspect here have been ulterior motives at play.

He pulls experimentally at the leather restraints that pin his wrists to the headboard, trying and failing at keeping a smile from his lips. His ankles seem to be restrained the same way. His eyes flutter open and he looks up to find Gregory sitting astride his thigh and looking just a bit smug. “Good morning, darling. I see you’ve been industrious today.”

*

Greg's eyes glitter. He wears just three things: an unbuttoned white dress shirt; an open black bow tie, loose beneath the collar; and an engagement ring, pride of place on his left hand. Otherwise, he's naked to the soft morning light. This game has taken a little set-up. At several points he worried Mycroft was about to wake up on him and spoil the fun. His stealthy efforts seem to have paid off, though.

And now for the fruit of his labours.

"Good morning, Antarctica," he murmurs. 

He gives his husband-to-be a moment to catch up, as a grin curls the corner of his mouth.

"Sorry to wake you up to bad news," he goes on, trailing his fingertips down the exposed skin of Mycroft's sides, "but it looks like you'll have to hire some new guards. The ones you had weren't really up to scratch."

He presses his teeth into his lip, pulling on it slowly.

"Seems they've let a dangerous enemy agent into your bedroom," he says. "One with some promises to keep... as per our last encounter."

_ Play with me,  _ his deep brown gaze says, soft and fond and full of sparkle.  _ Might be my new fiancé. You're still my lover. _

*

Mycroft huffs a soft, fond laugh, gazing up at his best beloved.  _ Look at you, beautiful. Up first thing in the morning, freshly engaged and wanting to play _ . He nods, smiling, and then closes his eyes for a moment to try and attain a more serious expression.

“You enjoyed yourself so much you came back for seconds, Mr. Bond?” 

He makes something of a show of testing the restraints, not bothering to do much to actually escape other than dramatically flexing his arms and sighing as though he’s been thoroughly thwarted. “These are unapproved tactics for your agency, 007. Have you gone rogue? Are the angels fallen so far?”

He strokes his tongue across his lip, eyes sliding down to Gregory’s delectable cock and back up again, openly lascivious. “I could offer you so much more, you realize, Mr. Bond. Release me and you shall have a spot of the highest level in my employ.”

A smile creeps across his lips. Mycroft has always enjoyed a good dramatic villain speech. “What say you, Mr. Bond? Shall we be friends?”

*

Greg smothers as much of his grin as he can, fighting his hardest to keep it under wraps.  _ You wonderful bastard,  _ he thinks, and it shows as clear as day upon his face.  _ Stop making me laugh when I'm trying to seduce you. _

"You'll have to try harder than that, Antarctica," he says, cocking one eyebrow. "I'm not falling for your sly tricks. Not this time."

Leaning low, his eyes dancing with a love he can't begin to hide, Greg presses their foreheads together. Their noses rub in a good morning nuzzle; he smiles. 

For a few moments, there's just this: the two of them, the sunlight through the curtains, the contact of their bare skin from throat to thigh. Greg hopes he's always this aware of the ring on his left hand. He hopes he's aware of it every minute of every day—when he's at work, when he's at home, when they're making love.

He didn't know it was really possible to feel this happy and secure.

"I want to see what's beneath that attitude," he murmurs, teasing Mycroft with the lightest brush of his lips—not a kiss, not quite, just the promise of one. "I want to know what it takes to make you melt. You might be full of yourself right now, Antarctica..."

He grins, bright-eyed.

"But give it half an hour, maybe you'll be full of something else..."

*

_ Mmm. Yes, please. _

“Bold words, Bond, but they are just words until you do something about it.” Mycroft lets his words rumble into the scant space between them, his tone teasing.  _ Go ahead, love.  _

_ Fuck me senseless. _

His tongue flicks out and licks across Greg’s lips, feeling rather daring. Gregory is the only man he would ever be so comfortable with, that he would ever let tie him up in any fashion.  _ I trust you, love, _ his eyes say, smiling up at him. 

His lips, of course, continue mouthing off.

“If you want me to melt, Mr. Bond, you are going to have to turn up the heat.” Mycroft relaxes into the pillows, languidly letting the leather bindings display him, like he- or, rather, Antarctica- hasn’t a care in the world. 

“Personally, I don’t think you have it in you.”

*

Greg pulls at his lip, enjoying the display.

"We'll see," he says, and without taking his eyes from Mycroft's, he reaches over to the bedside. A bottle of their lube has been placed there ready, a warming one Greg has been a fan of for years. It's the one he usually nudges into Mycroft's hands for sleepy bedtimes at home, when hands and stroking are more than enough for the relief to slip off to sleep. 

Removing the cap with a soft snap, Greg dispenses a fairly generous amount into his palms. He slicks it, slowly, watching his fiancé all the while, letting him hear.

"Forgive the precautions," Greg murmurs, glancing at the restraints. "Not that I don't trust you, of course."

His palms gleaming, he reaches down and curls them around Mycroft's cock, sweeping them slowly from root-to-tip one after the other, hardening Mycroft in his hands.

"Do you remember our last encounter?" he asks, as he meets his lover's gaze. His pupils are huge. "I've been thinking about it quite a bit."

*

_ I was right, love. You could have been an actor.  _ The anticipation is nearly enough to raise his interest visibly as he waits. Mycroft’s eyes flutter, that first stroke of warmth excessively blissful against his firming flesh. He lets his body splay further, grounding himself in the feel of the sheets against his skin.

“I remember it well. You, entirely at my mercy.” 

He lets the pattern of the slow teasing wash over him, steadying his breathing and his heart. Much as Mycroft Holmes might wish to turn himself over to Gregory’s affections in whatever form they might take, Antarctica must not be so easily persuaded.

“Is that it, then? You need more?” He licks his lips lasciviously. “I knew you’d enjoyed yourself, but I hardly expected such a dedicated show of affection in return, Mr. Bond. Truly, I am impressed.”

*

Greg huffs, slowing his stroke to match his fiancé's breathing. This isn't a fast game, not this morning—not this first gentle playtime. They made love last night after dinner, slowly and intensely, but this is something different. 

It feels just as memorable somehow. Just as special.

"Maybe you got under my skin a little," he murmurs, his eyes glittering, and eases one hand down to gently cup Mycroft's balls. As he oils them, he watches every flicker of Mycroft's reaction with a smile. "Maybe now I want to get under yours. Nobody understands you like I do, after all."

*

“Oh, now that is true.”

The warmth filters through Mycroft much faster from his bollocks, driving him slowly to full hardness. It’s a vulnerable feeling, even with Gregory being so gentle with him, but Mycroft feels such a deep, intrinsic sense of trust in his lover- his betrothed- that he only wants to open his legs further.

He shifts restlessly, his body craving the contact in ever deeper ways. “And you wish to further our understanding.” His mouth opens, stilting a soft moan before he manages to quell it. “Mmm. Let it never be said I am not open to negotiation.”

*

"Not sure you're in a position to negotiate," Greg points out with a wink, sliding Mycroft's now firm cock through the circle of his fingers. As he eases his way back to the tip, he lets go with a snug flash of his thumb across the head, then relocates his hand down between Mycroft's legs instead. "Seems to me you're in more of a position just to... relax."

He spreads the lube with his fingertips gently, tracing the ring of muscle but not pressing just yet, relaxing Mycroft instead to this slow external pleasure. His left hand keeps up its rhythmic and steady massaging of Mycroft's balls as he strokes, taking his time. He thought all this through in exquisite detail, lying next to Mycroft and watching his fiancé doze.  _ I want to take you apart, piece-by-piece. I want to hear you plead. I want to be the only thing in your head, nothing but me, nothing but what I make you feel. _

"So here's the plan, old friend," he murmurs, holding Mycroft's gaze as he spirals his slick fingertip lazily round and round. "You're gonna lie there, tied open for me, while I have everything I want from you... and have it slowly, for as long as I like. You made me beg for your cock when last we met. You're going to beg me on... let's say  _ three _ separate occasions before we're finished here."

His eyes glitter as he nuzzles just the tip of his finger into Mycroft, breaching his body slowly.

"And it won't make any difference," he says, "because you're mine. You'll come when I want to watch you come. Sound good?"

*

“It seems, Bond, you rather have the advantage of me.”

The urge to comply, to try and roll over and present himself and just beg for it is dizzying.  _ All yours. Make me feel it. Yes, good god, have me, please.  _ He squirms, seeking more as he pulls his lip between his teeth.

_ Only yours. _

_ Forever. _

But some of the fun of this sort of game is in the resisting. Mycroft wants Greg to make him feel it, make him behave. It’s probably the same part that wants so badly to obey- Mycroft doesn’t pretend to any expertise in the psychology of it, but he knows playing at reluctance is terribly appealing.

“You can have what you like, my impressive double-oh.” He smiles, eyes glittering. “But I will not beg.”

*

Greg chuckles, low in his throat. 

"Mm. That's gonna make it so much better when you do." He concentrates on easing his finger gently into Mycroft as he speaks, stroking the warming lube around him and inside him. They've had so much sex this holiday it's hardly needed, but this isn't going to be quick and dirty. It's indulgent. "I can't wait to see you desperate, pulling at those restraints for me... panting for me, telling me you're mine..."

He adds a second finger slowly, watching Mycroft's face as he stirs them.  _ Okay?  _ his gaze asks, the slightest hint of a smile lifting his mouth.

*

_ Oh god yes, _ Mycroft thinks in return, nodding enough that Greg can see the affirmation. The warmth of the lube feels deliciously anticipatory, making him crave far more thorough contact than he’s currently getting. This is all foreplay, and Greg knows precisely where all his favorite buttons are and how to press them.

_ If he wanted, he could take hours. _

Mycroft doesn’t think he’d mind, even if he was crying for it by the end. 

He lets a little moan out, pulling enough that he can feel the tightness of the leather at his wrists. It feels like a reassurance to have them there, and know they’ll hold him tight just for Greg to use. 

“Telling you I am yours, hmm? Then it has to be an exemplary performance, Bond.” He wets his lips. “I hope you are up to it.”

*

Mycroft's small moan causes a tug to Greg's stomach; he feels it in his face too, a tightening of his expression through sheer longing for his partner's pleasure. It's going to be harder than he planned to keep this persona up. Mycroft looks like utter fucking heaven, tied there and pulling gently at his restraints. 

Greg wets his lips, letting his pulse settle a bit before he speaks.

"Don't you worry," he murmurs as he rubs gently inside Mycroft, spreading the warming lube as deep as he can. The formula is Greg's favourite for a reason; it keeps working for quite some time after it's applied. "I didn't come all this way to go easy on you."

He leans down as if to kiss Mycroft, nuzzling their cheeks—then at the last moment dips, winding his way down Mycroft's body instead. He trails soft, open-mouthed kisses the entire length of Mycroft's torso, taking his sweet time to reach Mycroft's cock. All the while, his fingers stir and gently thrust, teasing Mycroft now with a lazy in-and-out.

Finally level with Mycroft's cock, he gazes up the bed as he lowers his nose to the very base. He lips lightly up to the tip, barely brushing, his open mouth a mere promise, his brown eyes round and soft. 

The first sweep of his tongue comes with barely any pressure behind it; he wets Mycroft's head rather than licks him. He repeats the motion, watching, as he crooks his fingers inside Mycroft and beckons.

*

Mycroft’s lips part in a silent moan as his eyes roll to the heavens.  _ Oh my good god.  _ He must give his fiancé ( _ his fiancé! _ ) credit, clearly Gregory means to take absolutely no prisoners here. If Mycroft dies from a surfeit of joy and arousal, it shall be a worthy death, finger-fucked and licked.

His toes curl, and he focuses on that, on the feeling of tendons and bone and forcing his blood not to redirect as one marching unit to his cock. Still, it’s hard not to try to wriggle on Gregory’s hand, especially with the heat spreading within him, seeking  _ more, anything _ where his prostate is concerned- even if he knows it won’t yet be granted.

Once his eyes are open, he must also contend with the visage of Gregory lovingly teasing his cock as those damnable yet beautiful fingers continue toying with him. 

_ My perfect hellion.  _

One long inhale through his nose as he bites into his lip grounds him, and he can speak again. Surely this is not what was intended from his various trainings in how to remain calm under extreme pressure, but if his gorgeous lover wants a challenge he shall certainly have one. Even if it takes most of the focus he has. Even if it’s strongly contested by the heat on his cheeks and the breathiness of his tone.

“Oh? Do you plan to go  _ hard?” _

*

Greg's eyes glitter. "In a while," he hums, a picture of innocence, and treats Mycroft to another slow sweep with the flat of his tongue. "Testy, aren't you? Seems like I'm gonna have to remind you how patience works before we go much further. I know you're used to getting what you want, Antarctica. But this is my time now."

He has a feeling he's spread enough of the warming lube around Mycroft's prostate to let it just work its magic now. He gives it another minute all the same, making sure, while Mycroft's rigid cock gets the same maddening flat-tongued licks. There's no rhythm to it, no building, just this idle and almost sleepy cleaning.

At last, when the pink in Mycroft's cheeks has reached a hue that suggests he's more than ready to go, Greg gently slides his fingers free. He reaches for more warming lube and coats Mycroft's cock with it,  _ generously, _ then down around his balls.

"You know my favourite thing about this stuff?" he murmurs when he's finished, resting his cheek on Mycroft's inner thigh. He draws a deep breath and gently blows for five long seconds, cold air rushing over the most intimate parts of Mycroft's body and kickstarting the lube. "Doesn't even need any supervision. In fact... it means I can probably just..."

Eyes gleaming, he eases away down the bed. He stands up from the end of it, makes a show of slowly stretching, then strolls absent-mindedly to retrieve the corner chair.

He drags it over to the side of the bed, where Mycroft can have the perfect view. 

*

_ Oh my god. _

Half of Mycroft is thrilled. Gregory has been learning from his own techniqiues, and he must be credited, clever, lovely creature that he is.

The other half feels a bit like his playbook is being used against him. 

_ My gorgeous, and apparently evil, secret agent love, you have learned too well. _

“Are you  _ seriously-” _ he starts, mostly in character. Mostly. Mycroft bites his lip, whitening it. The heat is already circling, enveloping him, the first ripples of dizzying need spilling into his blood. There’s no question he is going to beg. Quite possibly a lot. The only matter to decide is how long he manages before he starts howling for it.

His thighs try to grind together, just a bit, trying to create friction for his cock, his balls, anything that will make it feel like those delectable fingers are back inside him, but nothing works. There’s simply a feeling of warm… vacancy, demanding to be filled.

Mycroft licks his lips. “I knew you would have served well on my side, double-oh. This is merely proving my point.”

Even without direct stimulation, his erection is hardly flagging. He shifts against the restraints restlessly, eyes dark and affixed keenly on the source of his every sweet torment.  _ Hellion, I utterly love you. _

*

Bright-eyed, Greg settles himself in the chair by the bed. 

"Not the  _ serve _ type," he says, arches his back a little to get comfy and parts his thighs, easing one leg over each arm of the chair. "More the play-my-own-game type, these days."

His pulse jogs at the intimacy of this: it's hard to imagine a more exhibitionist position, spread open for Mycroft's gaze. It's very much part of the fun, though. Grinning, he reaches for the bottle of lube on the bedside cabinet.

"You know I can't sleep some nights now? Dreaming about your cock in me again."

He opens the top drawer, removes the sleek glass dildo he stashed there earlier, and uncaps the lube with his teeth.

"It's been inconvenient," he says, as he coats the toy liberally. "Tried to recreate it, obviously... gotten pretty good at looking after myself, if I'm honest. But you can't imagine the frustration."

As he nuzzles the toy's rounded head against his opening, he closes his eyes and concentrates on his own breathing for a few moments. His head drops back; his chest heaves.

"You know when you just...  _ need  _ to  _ fuck,"  _ he gasps, penetrating himself slowly, and colour floods his cheeks. His back arches, his thighs straining wide. "Nnhh—when you just  _ absolutely need  _ someone to—oh,  _ fuck..." _

*

_ Dear god in heaven. _

Mycroft may need to reassess. Perhaps Gregory really is trying to kill him.

There’s a faint snap of leather as he strains against the restraints, unable to help himself. He’s as hard as a diamond, there’s a desperate need within him that is being mercilessly spurred on by the lube, and Gregory is  _ right there _ putting on the most hedonistic show Mycroft has ever seen. They’re both fortunate Mycroft is far enough from actual spy games to require any manner of biometric tracker, because if his people could detect his current heart rate they’d probably send in an armed rescue team.

His thighs slip together, the tiniest bit of contact between them hardly enough to give him any relief at all. He must look a state: hair still bed-rumpled, sex flushed and wide-eyed, and he can feel the occasional damp drip from the tip of his cock to his belly. Gregory, on the other hand, looks like a glorious god has descended to pleasure himself at Mycroft’s bedside.

_ And he’s mine, isn’t he?  _ He stretches his fingers just to feel the brush of the ring against the sheets.  _ Mine to keep. _

“Oh, beautiful,” he murmurs. There’s too much admiration in him for everything that is Gregory to keep it in. His mouth feels a bit dry, all of a sudden, but he swallows anyway, still balancing the bind he got himself in by playing too much Le Chiffre. “I’m developing a fair impression of that sort of need myself. Yet you have the real thing right here, and I assure you despite my reputation I am far warmer than any glass.”

*

Watching Mycroft pull at his restraints is a memory Greg will cherish. He's going to feel like heaven to ride, tied in place for Greg to enjoy, and that audible swallow has Greg biting down into his lip. He loves Mycroft like this: desperate. Not many people in this world have seen Mycroft Holmes desperate, not like this, held so safely within all their gathered trust and love that he can be weak.

_ My husband-to-be. _

_ Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade. _

Greg's grin accompanies a long shiver of pleasure. He settles the toy inside him as deeply as feels comfortable for now, releases a slow breath, then treats himself to small, shallow and easy motions as his body adjusts. He makes no sign he's heard Mycroft whatsoever. They both know the goal of this game, after all; they know Greg won't be coming one single inch closer until he's begged.

It means there's no rush to this. No rush in the slightest.

All he has to do is rest here and enjoy himself, groaning softly as the sleek length of glass nuzzles deeper. His free hand strays lightly to his cock. He wraps his fingers around it, loose and gentle for now, and takes up teasing himself with the long and idle strokes that make him shudder.

_ All this pleasure,  _ he thinks, resting his head to one side purely so he can gaze at Mycroft, his eyes heavy-lidded and dazed with enjoyment. A flush is rising in his cheeks.  _ All for me. So much to cope with.  _

_ Such a shame you're all the way over there. _

*

“Oooh, that is unfair.” 

Mycroft’s mind is torn between  _ how very dare you enjoy yourself without letting me touch _ and  _ please please please I will do anything. _ He makes a strained noise while he watches the show, the metal links in the restraints clinking softly as his Antarctica facade gently cracks. 

“Might I at least have a toy of my own? Your fingers?” God, he’s leaking in earnest now. That heated lube is a devil- no wonder Gregory likes it so much. Perhaps he’s intending to find out if Mycroft really can come untouched. They might find out together if this continues. “You may- fuck my mouth, if you like. Use me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Watching his lover slowly fuck himself just out of reach is entirely too much to bear. A soft, desperate moan escapes him as he wriggles once more in his bindings. “Please- whatever you like, just- touch me,  _ please _ .”

*

_ Two at once,  _ Greg thinks, as a grin breaks out across his face.  _ Turns out I'm good at this.  _ He sighs, rather headily, and takes his time to withdraw the toy from his body. His toes curl as the slightly bulbous head eases free.

"See, Antarctica?" he murmurs, as he shifts across lazily from the chair onto the bed. The mattress dips gently beneath his additional weight. "Nice things happen when you drop the smart-mouthed attitude..."

He ignores Mycroft's cock entirely, settling instead between his open thighs. As he presses the head of the toy between Mycroft's legs, his eyes lift gently to Mycroft's face. For a moment, the role he's playing disappears; the look is from one lover to another, a soft glance of reassurance.

The glass slides into Mycroft slowly, carefully, filling him at only the pace he can take.

When it's settled deep, Greg shifts himself to sit astride Mycroft's hips. He's sunk down on Mycroft's cock this way so many times now that he hardly even needs to reach to line up. The motion is deft, slick, and he takes Mycroft into his body in a single smooth stroke which cuts the groan in his throat into a whimper.

He then leans back, shivering, and braces a hand on each of Mycroft's thighs.

Looking down at Mycroft, breathing slow, his eyes glitter like black gems.

"You're not allowed to come," he says softly, as a bead of precome drips from the tip of his cock onto Mycroft's belly. He shudders, tipping his head back. "Not until I've had what I want," he breathes, and starts to ride.

*

“Take me then, hell- hellion. Whatever- whatever you need, take-  _ fuck-” _

Whatever he’d thought of his previous predicament, going from no stimulation at all to a plug nudging his prostate and Gregory riding him sets him so close to letting himself go that he aches from his feet to his knees from curling his toes so forcefully. His fingers wrap the ties of the cuffs, white-knuckled and desperate for anything to cling to, any way to disperse the pressure.

There’s a pattern to it, at least, and he forces himself to count the seconds of the slide and  _ breathe _ instead of thinking about how fucking good Greg feels, slick and warm around him. That quiet order from his fiancé is going to  _ haunt _ him. He’ll be hearing it in many, many future dreams. 

For now, he just has to refrain from orgasming.

He has to be  _ good. _ He can do that. For Greg, Mycroft can do most anything, even if it makes him absolutely ache with need. He can’t be quiet about it, however, and every roll of Greg’s hips is accompanied by a gasping, desperate sound from the back of his throat. 

“Yours-  _ fuck- _ all yours-”

*

_ Mine. Fuck, mine. All mine.  _

Mycroft feels perfect. He's familiar and he's comfortable and he's Greg's. Even his sounds feel good, as if they're tickling gently across Greg's skin, and it's so easy to relax it becomes almost hypnotic. Each slick stroke pushes their playful game further and further from Greg's mind, soon leaving him with nothing but this perfect steady pleasure. Mycroft's gorgeous like this. Just watching him fight for control would be enough to get Greg close. 

_ And it's me,  _ Greg thinks, his heart heaving.  _ It's me who does this to you. It's me you trust. Me you want. Me who makes you feel like this. _

_ Holy shit. _

Pressing his teeth into his lower lip, Greg slows the rhythm enough to truly focus on what he's doing: lowering himself in long, deep slides from root to tip, feeling every single inch of Mycroft. The feeling drops his moans lower into Greg's throat, softening in tone. It rises colour in his cheeks.

As he carries on, contentment floods his features. It feels almost meditative, enjoying Mycroft exactly the way he enjoyed his toy.  _ My husband's cock. All for me, until I've had my fill. All the pleasure I want. _

His thumbs trace slow and gentle circles on Mycroft's thighs as he rocks, comforting. 

_ I know you're fighting. You're so good. So good to hold on for me. _

*

The slower rhythm is almost enough for Mycroft to lose himself in, the repetitive pleasure both maddening and soothing, easy to time his breaths to but also driving him ever closer toward the edge. 

_ Don’t come,  _ he tells himself.  _ Hang on. Hold yourself for him.  _

It’s almost as if there’s no one else in the whole world but Greg. The room could have moved, all their belongings been stolen out from under them and Mycroft would not have noticed. The whole of his attention, the whole of his  _ being _ , belongs to Gregory. His world is wrapped up in the sensation on his cock and the circles being drawn on his thighs.

For all the tension in him, the white-knuckled hold on his bonds and the just-barely-held control over his orgasm, Mycroft strangely begins to relax the longer he has to wait. He slides into letting Gregory have full control over him, content to watch as his perfect fiancé has his way. 

Gregory is beautiful like this, of course, like a Greek god has descended and Mycroft is a mere mortal happy to be allowed even this much. 

He’s hardly aware of it when he lets out a low, plaintive whine. He’d like to touch, like to come, and there’s a ripple of arching through his back as he just stops himself from giving in.

But Gregory isn’t done with him yet, and he still has to be  _ good. _

_ Yours- just yours. _

*

God, that  _ whine.  _ That desperate, begging whine. It aches through Greg like sudden heat and he matches it at once with a moan of his own, feeling himself beginning to tip—that wild, restless chase towards no return. He can already tell this is going to be huge. He's been longing for it since he woke up and laid beside Mycroft in the dim light, rolling the thoughts through his mind, slowly deciding that he wanted it too much to resist.  _ I need it, I need it, I need it. _

It takes every fragment of his resolve to stop. He manages to force himself, panting, and levers himself up off Mycroft's cock with a groan. Every inch of his skin seems to pulse; his body clenches around its sudden emptiness. Shifting down the bed as he shakes, Greg settles himself between Mycroft's open legs and removes the glass toy, quick but careful, one smooth and easy pull.

He replaces it with his own cock just as smoothly, gasping at the sudden plunge into slick, snug heat. 

The urge to fuck overwhelms him at once. He can't hold it. With the last scrap of his control, he gets a hand around Mycroft's cock and begins a fast and tight up-and-down stroke, smearing lube and pre-come from head to tip. He matches the rhythm with almost animal thrusts into Mycroft's body, hard and needy.

"You can come," he gasps, his voice breaking. "You can come, you need to come—oh god, you need to come now—"

*

Mycroft nearly screams when Greg climbs off, and he knows he whimpers when the plug is removed. He’s prepared to beg, prepared to offer anything Gregory could wish for-

_ Why- please, please come back, I’ll do anything, please- _

But then he has Greg within him, and the sense of relief he has in being filled and fucked is overwhelming. He sobs out a cry, louder when Greg’s hand begins relentless stroking him, demanding as much as giving permission. His back arches off the bed, leather snapping taut once more. “Oh, god- thank you, thank you, fuck- I love you-“

He comes with such force that he’s briefly certain he’s somehow managed to concuss himself, everything vanishing into blinding white with only the forceful shifting of his body with every thrust grounding him. He goes pliant into a muzzy, sated haze, still murmuring thanks and praise to his beloved, letting Gregory take whatever he needs from Mycroft’s body to reach his own climax.

“Gregory… love you….”

*

Mycroft's so fucking gorgeous in his throes that Greg briefly forgets himself. He's too busy watching, enraptured, as Mycroft writhes and calls out underneath him. His own pleasure becomes almost secondary, all his focus drawn to this intensity he's witnessing, and it's enough to keep him just this side of the brink.

As Mycroft comes down, murmuring, Greg nuzzles restlessly into his neck. He's never needed to come so badly in his life. It takes no more than a few seconds, a few deep and urgent thrusts just to tip him over the edge, and it's  _ blistering.  _ Greg's only dimly aware of his own voice, swearing at some volume into Mycroft's neck as he buries himself deep in his lover's body and lets go, aching with the force of it. It's almost too much,  _ too  _ good.

When it's over, Greg can barely move. He feels like he's fallen off a cliff then climbed back up. 

Shaking, he reaches up to undo Mycroft's wrist restraints. He can't cope in this moment without his lover's arms around him. Though his muscles burn and strain with the effort, he manages to loosen both cuffs enough for Mycroft to pull free.

"Love you," he breathes, curling as tightly into Mycroft's arms as he can manage. "F-Fuck. Love you. Please, please tell me that wasn't—"  _ Too much.  _ "Fuck—"

*

“No, love, you’re perfect, just perfect. Come here.”

Mycroft folds himself around Greg, intertwining them as much as possible. He needs this too- needs to hold and feel and do all the things the bonds restricted him from. Greg’s weight is a comfort, pinning them both here, easing the floating feeling in his mind and tethering him back to reality.

“Good lord.” He breathes, focusing on the feel of oxygen in his lungs until he’s quite certain his brain is fully functioning once more. “That was incredible. I had no idea you would run so far with my fancies, but. God, yes. Wonderful.”

*

"Thank Christ," Greg says with a breathless laugh, and the relief feels almost like a second orgasm—an orgasm of the heart. It's not often that sex makes him nervous these days. Trying something new always brings this little jolt, but it's getting easier each time for Mycroft to reassure him.

_ This holiday's helped so much,  _ he realises. He shivers as he tips himself just slightly to one side, nestling into Mycroft's shoulder. It feels like some more wounds have healed, wounds so old and so deep that only sex and play and passion could ever reach them. Something has healed without even realising he needed it.

_ Didn't think it was possible for us to be any closer,  _ he thinks.  _ And yet somehow... _

"Hey," he murmurs, stroking the tip of his nose along Mycroft's jaw. "Back in London... we're gonna keep this up, aren't we? All this... new fun we've found." He grins, remembering something with a happy flush. "Even now we're formally betrothed, I mean."

*

“‘Formally betrothed?’ I must be rubbing off on you. You’re beginning to sound like me.” His lips brush into Greg’s hair, nuzzling close,  _ I love you _ writ on every breath. “Yes, my betrothed. I would like to continue having many varieties of fun with you for quite a long time. Even if we must be somewhat better behaved about ensuring our fun is completed in time for both of us to make it to work on time.”

It will be strange to retreat from their sanctuary and back to London life, but there is a dutiful cat who must be rewarded for arranging all of this in the first place, and Mycroft cannot imagine letting her wait any longer for them to return.

“Marmalade shall agree with me. You are perfect. Marry me instantly.”

A grin crosses his face as they shift gently and his nose is filled with the scent of both of their sweat and sex and spend. The entire room is  _ them  _ and  _ theirs. _ Nothing could possibly change that for the rest of eternity, as far as Mycroft is concerned. 

“Marry me after a shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus we come to the end of this segment of Mystrade smutty softness.
> 
> For all of you who came with us along the way, thank you. We cherish every comment and kudos we get, and we hope we have brought you some joy with the love and sexuality these delightful boys share. 
> 
> With much love,  
Lux and Moth


End file.
